Lies My Father Told Me: Part One
by Elizabeth Shawnessey
Summary: Upon working a case in Maine, Sam and Dean find themselves in the middle of a job that not only places them right in the center of the problem, but also not far from their father, John. Set between "Shadow" and "Hell House"; third in a series; long.
1. Prologue

Available for download in PDF. I promise you that I don't have any viruses. I just **strongly recommend **it seeing as this was written in book format. Visit the Tumblr dedicated to this series, "11785", for details.

Or just read it here (:

PROLOGUE

Blockbuster Video  
>Bangor, Maine<br>Tuesday, August 1, 2006  
>8:57 PM<p>

**C**arla Brown browsed the aisles of the dimly-lit Blockbuster video, trying to pick out the perfect movie for her and her two friends, Alex White and Emily Munroe, to watch on the last night before parting ways for college. It had to be something good, something that wasn't scary or sentimental—she didn't want them screaming in surprise or crying their eyes out—nor stupid and boring. It had to have just a twist of comedy, drama, and maybe even some high school hijinks to get them all to thankfully remember the life they were about to leave behind.

By this time tomorrow, Carla would be on her way to University of Pennsylvania on an athletic scholarship, moving herself into a dorm most likely full of other jocks. Though she wanted to stay close to home for college—mainly because she couldn't bear to part with her two best friends since kindergarten—it was the only school that had given her a full ride. With her mom barely making minimum wage at the Red Robin and her dad out of work after that accident he had been in involving his now-totaled car and a big rig, her parents could hardly afford to send her to the city college in town. U of P had been gracious enough to not only allow her a free four years, but room and board as well, making it her first and only choice for an education.

Unfortunately, she was the only one heading that far west for higher learning. Alex White, whose father owned a fishing company, was going to the University of Maine, while Emily Munroe was doomed to the fate of Beal College in Bangor—having barely passed their senior year. For them, the separation wasn't that far, maybe a twenty minute drive, but for Carla, the six hundred miles between her and her friends was about to feel like a world apart.

Which was why she had organized the final, act-like-we're-five slumber party in recognition of their meeting and dividing. The three had convened at the fifth birthday of one of their kindergarten classmates and had been inseparable since. Hopefully rekindling the day they had first shared Barbie clothes would keep their solid friendship alive between Christmas and summer breaks.

Smiling sadly, Carla felt her shoulders slump as she thought about the hole slowly eating away at her heart. She had heard stories about friends splitting apart during the college years, seen television shows that said as much, but had never really given it much thought until she had woken up that morning. From nearly eight o'clock until now, she had been trying to push away the idea of Alex and Emily finding someone to replace her while she was off in Pennsylvania earning her Bachelor's Degree. She already felt so far removed from them, even though she was only on the other side of the video store, and could tell her friends were picking up on it, too. Before she had separated from them, Alex had given her shoulder a small squeeze before letting Carla peruse the Drama section alone.

"Hey!" a chipper voice said behind her, causing Carla to whip around suddenly to see Emily standing at the mouth of the aisle with a blue and white box clutched in her small hands. "I think I found _exactly _what we need to commemorate this major event!"

Kicking away the unhappiness washing over her, Carla pushed her blonde hair behind her ears and smiled. "Yeah? What?"

"_High School Musical!_" Emily laughed, heading toward her friend and thrusting the DVD box forward. Checking to make sure her friend hadn't been playing some kind of joke, Carla read the label on the side of the case and rolled her eyes. At this, Emily frowned and wiped a tuft of brown hair off of her face. "C'mon. It can't be _that _bad."

"It will totally be _that _bad," Carla laughed, tossing the movie back. "But it's better than nothing. I've probably seen everything in here at least a thousand times. Remember when my dad used to take you and me to rent movies after school in junior high?"

"Yeah! And we always rented the _same_ horror movies?" Emily grinned. "I think I've seen _Friday the 13__th_enough for a lifetime."

"God. Or _My Bloody Valentine_," Carla said with a slow shake of her head. "I'm pretty sure '80s slasher films made a huge amount of money off of us in those years. Probably still would if I wasn't…"

Carla trailed off and frowned at the denim-blue carpet underneath her mesh sandals.

"Aw," Emily pouted, reaching around to drape her arm over her friend's shoulder. "It's not like you're dying, Car. We'll still see you like, all the time. There are these things called computers now, you know? It's not like we won't be able to talk every day. It'll be like you never left!"

"I guess you're right."

Letting her arm fall to her side, Emily used the index finger of her free hand to poke Carla in the belly. "Of course I'm right. Now come on. Let's find Alex before she drives off without us. This place is getting ready to close."

Exchanging a smile, the two girls headed out of the aisle and toward the front of the store where Alex stood browsing the sale items. As they passed each section on their way toward check-out, Carla couldn't help but notice how empty the place was. It seemed as if the only people there were the three of them and the twenty-something girl behind the tall, blue and yellow counter sorting through boxes of returned DVDs.

Turning her attention away from the girl, Carla watched as Alex pushed back the row of used movies she was perusing and pivoted to face them, black hair whipping her face. "So? What'd you find?" Emily held up the box for Alex to see, which earned her a deep scowl. "Seriously?"

"That's what I said!" Carla grinned.

"Well, whatever," Alex laughed, taking the movie from Emily and rounding the magazine rack separating the rest of the store from the check-out counter. "Store's closing soon, anyway. Not like we have time to argue."

Following her friend, Carla eased her way through the narrow gap between the shelving and headed toward the short red-head. At the notice of the two girls standing before her, the clerk pushed aside her work, and hit a button on the computer keyboard to her left. "Hi. Find everything okay?"

"I guess you can say that," Alex joked, shooting Carla a sly glare and handing over _High School Musical_. The girl eyed the box for a moment before grinning to herself as she removed the security device on the outside to reveal an empty container.

"Hang on a minute," she said, jumping down from a stool she had apparently been sitting on. "I think this one's in the back. It keeps disappearing for some reason."

Carla smiled as the redhead slipped into the back room. In the few minutes she was gone, Alex reached into the messenger bag draped over her shoulder to pull out her wallet—a small two-by-four inch picture falling out as she flipped it open. Bending down to pick it up, Carla saw that the photograph was from their sixth grade cheer squad.

"What's this?" she asked, though she already knew the answer, attempting to hold back a toothy grin. "Why're you dragging this around with you everywhere?"

"No reason," Alex replied quickly as the redhead reemerged from the door in the back, trying to place a silver disc into its holder.

"Alright," the girl said, typing something into the computer. "That'll be five dollars with your Blockbuster card."

Handing both card and money over to the redhead, Carla and Alex waited while she rung them up. When she was done, Alex took both movie and change and threw them into her purse. On their way out, Emily joined them, a broad smile on her face.

"What?" Alex asked, pulling her keys from her pocket.

"Nothing."

* * *

><p>By the time the three had returned to Carla's parent's house, the front porch light had been turned off to let the girls know the adults had gone to bed. It was a signal her mom had set up a long time ago to inform her that any loud noises wouldn't be tolerated, and that still held true regardless of the fact that Carla was now over eighteen and one day away from college.<p>

Opening the front door as quietly as possible, the three snuck into the large, blue, Colonial-style home that had sat at the end of the Rosebud Lane for as long as she could remember. Tiptoeing through the hallway, Carla began to feel the now-familiar sadness begin to creep up on her as she thought about how she would only be seeing the house and the people inside it in six month intervals.

Pushing the melancholy away just as she pushed the door to her bedroom open, Carla flipped on the light and closed off the room as silently as possible. Boxes upon boxes lined the walls, along with suitcases and cardboard rolls holding posters inside, giving the space a strange, empty feeling. The three of them stood near the closet for a moment to soak in the state of the once-crowded-with-stuff bedroom before Alex cleared her throat and shook her head. "So, movie now? Or are we sneaking into the kitchen for snacks first?"

"Movie first, snacks later," Emily replied, snatching the Blockbuster box from her friend's hand and heading over to the TV/DVD combination set sitting on the otherwise cleared dresser that had held the thing at eye-level for years.

While Emily messed with the controls, Carla and Alex found a comfortable spot among the pile of pillows and blankets tossed at the head of Carla's queen-sized bed. She hadn't had time to sort through which ones she wanted before the doorbell rang earlier, and decided they could just figure out who wanted what once they were ready to go to sleep.

Stepping back from the set, Emily grabbed the remote off the edge of the dresser and waited for the FBI warning screen to pass before letting the menu load. However, the image that appeared on screen wasn't what Carla had expected. Black shapes flickered across the twenty-inch frame, one male and one female, chasing each other. After a few moments, the two silhouettes came together to make one large form: that of a semi-truck.

"This doesn't look like a Disney movie…" Carla frowned.

No one said anything as the rest of the film played out.

The black shadow of a semi-truck soon became the image of a real one, though blurry and a little too bright. The headlights flashed twice before the engine picked up and headed toward the screen. For a moment, Carla was sure the vehicle was going to burst through the glass, and even flinched, but was soon comforted otherwise as the frame changed to a long highway. The truck drove along at a barreling speed, a small Honda that looked eerily familiar heading in the direction opposite it.

"I think…"

But Carla didn't get to finish her sentence. As the movie continued to play, she stopped as the two vehicles collided with one another, grill-on-grill, before the front of the semi enveloped the entirety of the Honda.

"What the hell is this?" Alex snapped, sitting up and sliding off the bed.

"Horror flick?" Emily frowned, seemingly unaffected.

"Turn it off," Alex demanded, reaching for the blue and white box to make sure they had gotten the right movie. "The label still says _High School Musical_."

"Maybe she got them mixed up?"

"No… I don't…"

Shooting a look at Alex, Carla furrowed her brows and sat up straighter against the headboard. It wasn't often that her friend was at a loss for words, but something about what they had just seen on television seemed to have bothered Alex more than she could describe. "What is it?"

"It's… it's nothing," Alex lied, popping out the DVD to look at the disc. The top of the DVD was blank, as was the bottom, and Carla could see as she flipped it over in her hand that it looked more like a home movie disc than one put out for mass production. "We need to get this back to the store and get the real movie before they close for the night."

"They already _are _closed," Emily said, glancing at the clock on her cell phone. "They close at nine and it's almost half past that."

"We have to try."

"Wait, why? What's going on?" Carla asked, jumping to her feet before Alex could head for the door and wake her parents. "Please, just tell us what's going on, alright?"

Taking a deep breath, Alex's shoulders slumped as she headed back to the bed and lowered herself onto the corner of the mattress. "I can't explain it."

"Well, try," Carla said, taking a seat next to her friend and squeezing her hand encouragingly. "It's not like we're going to make fun of you."

"That's not it," Alex frowned. "It's just… remember the night of your dad's accident? The one that was pretty much like the one we just saw in that movie?"

"Yeah," Carla frowned, thinking back on the aftermath of the accident. Her dad's silver Nissan had been totaled, with nothing but the trunk of the car being left as it was. The rest of the vehicle looked like a twisted accordion, and by some miracle, her father had survived. The police officer had attributed the fact that her dad only needed the jaws of life and a tourniquet to the fact that the Nissan had extraordinary airbags, but Carla had always thought it was because the semi-truck had slammed on the brakes at the last moment, dulling the impact. "But what does that have to do with anything?"

"After you told me about it, I had nightmares—_bad _nightmares—about it happening to my dad. It became, like, my biggest fear," Alex stopped as Carla took in a sharp breath. Now she understood where she recognized the Honda in the video. "I guess seeing it played out shook me up."

"No kidding," Carla sighed. Getting to her feet, she picked up the discarded DVD case from where it had fallen on the floor during the conversation and tapped her fingers against the face. "Alright. We'll go return this. You coming, Em?"

"Yeah, I'll go," Emily said softly, reaching out and helping Alex to her feet before linking arms and leading the way quietly out of the house.

As the trio rounded the front walk and ducked into the car, with Emily taking the movie from her before getting in as if to lay the blame on herself, Carla suddenly had a bad feeling. A shiver ran down her spine as Alex shoved the keys into the ignition and backed out of the driveway with haste, not even giving her friends enough time to slam their doors shut.

A few minutes passed before they were back on the road toward the video store, with nothing on the street except for the odd car. Carla watched listlessly as they passed under the mile-apart street lights and houses with large front yards, her mind no longer on the subject of leaving for school but on the accident her father had been involved in on I-95.

It hadn't been more than a year since, but the memory was still somewhat fresh: Getting the call from the police department, her mom being certain that her father was dead, and rushing down to the scene to see her dad being carted away from his busted vehicle in a stretcher soaked with blood. Her mom had gone with them in the ambulance, giving Carla the keys and telling her to follow behind. At the hospital, police had asked her questions about whether her dad had terrible driving habits and whether he had an alcohol problem, and seemed dissatisfied with her answer when she told them no to both. In the end, the doctor said he would pull through, but would be paralyzed from the waist down. Everything in that moment seemed to stop, and she had turned to the only person she could think of: Alex. However, she didn't know her real-life terror would turn into her friend's reoccurring nightmare. If she had known that, she probably would have talked to Emily first.

Taking a deep breath, Carla turned her attention away from the trees flying by to look out the front windshield. The inside of the car was silent with inverted thoughts, most likely about the video they had seen back at her house, with only road noise to break up the uneasy quiet. Alex seemed to be driving on autopilot, with her eyes focused intently on the road before her. As a pair of headlights passed, she seemed unfazed by their brightness as she kept driving, her mind elsewhere.

Unfortunately, the quite didn't last for long. A moment later, a pair of much brighter headlights appeared down the road, a wider set than before. The sound of a heavy diesel engine followed the blinding beams, snapping Alex out of her thoughts and causing her to hit the brakes. Carla yelped in surprise as the car skidded to a stop.

Peering through the lights, she could make out the dense shape of a semi-truck, gasping at its eerie similarity to the one they had seen in the video. It stalled for a long moment while she took in its chrome grill, black front, and white cargo before rumbling threateningly.

"Guys…"

She didn't need to warn them to know that they understood. That truck was about to head straight for them, and they had to turn around and head back into town before it could catch up.

Making a broken U-turn, Alex sped the car in the opposite direction, but it was only a few seconds before the semi was at their bumper. Turning onto the street leading toward a twenty-four hour pharmacy, Alex pushed the pedal to the floor and the car quickened its pace. Carla gripped onto the handle of the door, getting ready to jump out as soon as they were in the parking lot of the store, but that moment never came.

As soon as Alex's green Mazda was within a few feet of the Rite-Aid, the truck appeared again, half a mile in front of them, its body barreling toward them. In a heartbeat, the two vehicles collided in a sick twist of metal and growling engines, and soon everything went black.


	2. Chapter 1

Available for download in PDF. I promise you that I don't have any viruses. I just **strongly recommend **it seeing as this was written in book format. Visit the Tumblr dedicated to this series, "11785", for details.

Or just read it here (:

ONE

Brewer Motor Inn  
>Brewer, Maine<br>Wednesday, August 2, 2006  
>4:35 AM<p>

_**S**__am lay on top of his bed with his eyes closed, listening to the light patter of the shower as the water hit the floor of the tub. He was back from his hunt with Dean, and was glad to be home. There was no way he was going back to that life. Sam was a Stanford man now. Hunting was nothing more than a part of his dark past._

_ Suddenly, something cold dripped onto his forehead as he realized that the shower had shut off. He kept his eyes closed but knew what the cold wetness was: Jessica was out of the bath, standing over him, ready to welcome him home. He smiled to himself as another drop of water fell on him, then wiped it away and opened his eyes._

_ Only to realize that it was blood that stained his hands, not water._

_ "Sam…"_

_ Looking up bewilderedly, it took a minute to absorb the scene on the ceiling before him. Jessica stared down at him, the white nightgown she was dressed in soaked with red around her midsection, and a look of absolute terror on her pale face. Her blonde, curly hair hung over her shoulders, as if she were lying on the floor looking up at him instead of the chilling alternative. _

_ "No!" he breathed._

_ As soon as the words escaped his mouth, the flames exploded behind her. To his right, he heard the door kick in and knew Dean was there, but didn't look at him. Sam was too transfixed on the sight above him, ignoring the fire that was engulfing the room. _

_ Dean grabbed his brother around the middle, pulling him away from the blaze. "There's nothing you can do!"_

_ But Sam struggled against him anyway, fully aware of the logic in his brother's words but choosing to ignore it. It wasn't too late. It couldn't _be_ too late._

_ "Jess!"_

_ His voice seemed to come out as a whisper against the roar of the flames. Dean pulled harder at Sam, but he continued to push against his older brother to get back to Jessica. If he could just grab her arm and pull her down, she would be okay. He just had to get to her._

_ The blaze exploded once again. This time the growl of the inferno was followed by the sound of a deafening slam. Turning around, Sam saw that the front door of his apartment, which had just been broken open by Dean, was now sealed shut as if his brother's foot hadn't caused the wood to splinter just below the knob. _

_ "Sam! We have to go! We have to get out of here!" Dean shouted, coughing between sentences. _

_ This time sensing the urgency of the situation, Sam rushed the door and grabbed for the handle to throw it open, but his palm was immediately burned. Nursing his hand with the fabric of his sweatshirt, Sam stood back while Dean kicked at the smoking wood. _

_ Suddenly, the door became nothing but a wall of fire as the room surrounding them became Hell incarnate. In one last bout of energy, Dean tried again to get them out, this time by throwing a chair from the kitchen table at the window, but it was useless. The flames engulfed the chair within seconds, leaving Sam and Dean trapped in the middle of the room with no way out._

_ "Sammy…_"

"Sammy… Sam! Dude, wake up!"

In a blur of fire and darkness, Sam Winchester opened his eyes and sat straight up, his face stopping an inch in front of his older brother, Dean's. Recoiling at the uncomfortable closeness, Sam scooted backwards until his shoulder blades hit the wooden headboard of the Brewer Motor Inn. His breathing was heavy and his mouth felt dry as he tried to block out the disturbing images clouding his mind.

"You alright?" Dean asked, concern leaking into his voice. "You were seriously moaning. And not the good kind, either."

"I'm—I'm fine," Sam lied, taking two deep breaths and trying to relax his tensed muscles as he shut his eyes. Ultimately, all that he got when his eyelids met one another were flashes of his dream and the fire, causing him to snap them open again.

"Yeah, you look fine," Dean commented sarcastically, shaking his head. "The nightmares are back, aren't they?"

Sam didn't say anything. Instead, he avoided his brother's eyes and looked around at his surroundings. Their motel was shadowed around them, lit only by the strip of light filtering in through the crack in the closed curtains. In the dimness, he could make out the shapes of the TV stand, dresser, and lamp that nestled against the wall directly in front of him, their black masses hiding the ugly green-and-brown fish-themed wallpaper behind it. His back rested against a carved headboard that had seen better days, and as he sank further into it under Dean's probing gaze, he could feel the groves in the wood dig into his shoulders.

He let the cold oak sooth him as he shot Dean a furtive glance just as his brother took a second to tug thoughtfully at his earlobe, his eyes on the carpeted floor. As he looked up, Sam recognized the furrowed eyebrows and frown that seemed permanently stuck on his brother's face since the two had started hunting together again—a look which told Sam that Dean was genuinely concerned about him.

The expression had been deepening itself into Dean's forehead and eyes for the past ten months, ever since Halloween night last year. For the two years prior to that, the brothers had been separated—Sam heading off to Stanford to earn a law degree while Dean continued to work alongside Dad up until his mysterious absence. Dad's disappearance had been what drove Dean into showing up in Sam's living room in the middle of the night after the long severance—not only startling him, but his girlfriend, Jessica. Sadly, the reunion with his brother hadn't been as bittersweet as he had hoped, and after a few minutes of talking to Dean, he soon knew why. Dad, for some unknown reason, had packed up and left in the middle of a job, with the only clue as to where he was being a static-filled voicemail left on Dean's cell phone.

After alerting his younger brother of the severity of the situation, Dean had spent a good amount of time trying to convince Sam to leave the safety of Stanford and Jessica to rejoin him on the road. Grudgingly, Sam had agreed, but only on the condition that Dean bring him back first thing Monday for a law school interview—his whole future on a plate. After a long search for Dad had commenced over the weekend in Jericho, California with surprisingly no result, Dean had fulfilled his promise, but the interview never happened.

Once back inside the apartment he and his girlfriend shared, Sam's normal, safe life soon became a steady nightmare. Upon the ceiling of their bedroom, lying flat on her back, was Jessica, staring down at him with a haunting, horrified expression he could never forget. Not even a moment after noticing her pale face, she was gone, engulfed in flames much like Sam had heard his mother, Mary, had died twenty-two years ago to the day. Luckily, Dean had been there to pull him from the fire, saving Sam but leaving Jessica behind.

The death of their mom had been what pushed their dad, John, into becoming a Hunter—a person who tracked down and executed supernatural evil—much in the same way Jess's death pushed Sam back into the gritty life of late nights, motel rooms, and diner food he had spent his whole time at Stanford trying to avoid. As much as Sam had grown up hating Dad's obsession to find whatever had killed their mom, he now understood it with the death of his girlfriend. He wanted, more than anything, to wrap his hands around the creature responsible, but after ten months of searching, he, Dad, and Dean were still coming up short.

The closest encounter they had come with something that could lead them to what had killed their mom and Jess had been in Chicago where a demon had been lying in wait for John Winchester to roll into town. Eventually, Dad had appeared, but the small family reunion had been cut short when the demon's attack dogs, for lack of a better word, nearly sent the Winchesters to the emergency room. The three of them had parted ways again, with Dad calling only once after to warn his sons to stay in hiding until he called again to let them know the coast was clear. They had gone underground in Fort Wayne, Indiana, but it wasn't long before Sam began to go stir crazy for something to do.

At the time, he had been convinced that the only way to find the creature they were looking for—which Dad believed to be a demon—was to keep hunting or he was headed back to school. He had been certain that if he wasn't on the road, it was better for him to be roaming the halls of Stanford. At least then, he rationalized, he'd be doing something productive. Dean, on the other hand, was under the impression of the opposite. In the three weeks he and Sam had been holed up in a motel room, Dean had worn himself out trying to convince his brother that the best thing for both of them was to stay where they were and to listen to Dad. Unfortunately, Dean's mantra began to wear thin at the end, causing Sam to debate leaving Dean and heading back to California despite his brother's wishes. Ultimately, however, the two reached a compromise and decided to work a job four hours from where they were staying—a case involving a ghost stirring up trouble in Louisville, Kentucky.

After working that job, Dean had begun to side with Sam, though he had a feeling his brother was only doing so to make sure Sam didn't try to head for a bus to Stanford in the middle of the night. Accepting it as it was, Sam found another case in Green River, Arkansas and the two had immediately snatched it up. Ultimately, though, Green River had been more of a lesson for Sam than he had anticipated when the doppelgänger they were hunting put an offer on the table to take his place in the "Hunting Duo" while Sam returned to school. In almost a heartbeat, Sam had declined and killed the creature. It wasn't long after burying it alongside his brother that he realized that maybe being on the road with Dean _was _the best place for him after all. Stanford could wait. Hunting was now.

However, the case in Green River had been almost two weeks ago, and without anything else to focus on, Sam had begun dwelling on things he knew better than to think back on: Dad's disappearance, Jessica's fire, and so on. These things, whether they were self-inflicted or not, resulted in Sam having nightmares much like the ones he had had following his girlfriend's death. The only difference between then and now, though, seemed to be the alternate ending: Dean and Sam becoming trapped in the apartment as well. This, for some reason, caused his heart to beat faster than the original conclusion and wake up in a heap of blankets and sweat in the middle of the night. If he didn't know better, he would wonder if he was having another vision, but ultimately knew that wasn't the case. With his visions, which had started unexpectedly about a year ago and caused him to see people die before they eventually got the axe, every one of them had occurred in the future, not the past. Also with his premonitions came a searing headache that not even a bottle of aspirin could kill.

All these dreams _were_, Sam reminded himself, were just that: dreams—his subconscious's way of turning a terrible event into something even more devastating.

"Sam?"

Snapping out of his thoughts and swallowing hard, Sam bit his lip and shot a look at the clock before glancing at Dean once more. Again, the concern was there, etched into the sparsely-freckled face and hard eyes of his brother's expression. It was enough to convince Sam that a lie was better than the truth. At least then Dean could get a full night's sleep before resuming his worrying in the morning.

"No. It wasn't a nightmare."

Disbelief flashed over Dean's face before his brother rolled his eyes. "Sure it wasn't," Dean scoffed, lying back down on his own bed. "Whatever. We can pick this up later."

Taking a deep breath, Sam waited a few moments for Dean to fall back asleep before getting to his feet and heading for his laptop across the room, suddenly determined to find a job to work.

_Maybe the distraction will keep the nightmares at bay._


	3. Chapter 2

Available for download in PDF. I promise you that I don't have any viruses. I just **strongly recommend **it seeing as this was written in book format. Visit the Tumblr dedicated to this series, "11785", for details.

Or just read it here (:

TWO

Brewer Motor Inn  
>Brewer, Maine<br>Wednesday, August 2, 2006  
>8:12 AM<p>

**T**he clicking of a lock caused Dean's eyes to pop open much earlier than he wanted them to. The conversation with Sam in the middle of the night had played merry hell on his sleeping, causing him to wake up at least once every hour, and he had been planning to stay in bed way past the normal time in order to right the wrong.

Unfortunately, it seemed the front door of their motel room didn't agree with the idea. Rubbing his eyes, Dean propped himself up against the headboard and saw through the gap in the curtains that his brother was standing outside, on the phone, tugging a sweatshirt on over his head as he spoke with whoever was on the other end of the line. Thankfully, Sam had had the mind to talk as quietly as possible to allow his brother to sleep, but now that Dean was awake and curious, he silently cursed his younger brother's cordialness.

Groaning as loudly as possible, Dean slid back under the covers and stared up at the ceiling. He and Sam had been in Brewer, Maine for the last week, sticking around for awhile in hopes that a case somewhere, Northeast or not, would appear. They had been without a case for nearly two weeks—unless the call about a fake haunting in the area counted, which he didn't think it did—and without something to beat up, Dean was starting to go crazy. He was growing restless as the days passed, suddenly able to understand Sam's need for a hunt back when they were under house arrest in Fort Wayne. At the time, Dean thought that Sam was just being a whiny and annoying younger brother, but now he knew how it felt to have a want to do something, but no outlet for it.

As his eyes visually traced the open beams above him, Dean's mind wondered whether or not the shortage of jobs was foreboding. Usually when the supernatural went quiet, that's when it was time to worry. Ultimately, though, he had a feeling it wasn't. He had gone longer stretches of time without a case. He just had too much energy this time around without anything to channel it into—probably because no matter how many times he cruised the bars, he still hadn't found anyone willing to spend the night with him. In fact, he hardly found anyone of the female persuasion in any bar. It seemed pubs in Maine were a male-only establishment, causing Dean to become equally frustrated in his lack of encounters as he was with the lack of cases.

Glancing out the window again, he saw that Sam was still on the phone, his expression one of deep concentration that usually signaled a business call. Hopefully Sammy had unearthed something in the wee hours of the morning—since Dean knew his brother had stayed up thanks to Sam's computer light waking him up every half an hour—something that wouldn't take long to track down and beat up.

Getting to his feet, Dean stretched and let his toes dig into the cold carpet. Despite the fact that Maine was a particularly frigid state, after working two extremely sweltering jobs in the South in the middle of July, Dean was certain August should be dedicated to the upper forty-eight. At least here his t-shirts weren't sticking to him and he could wear his favorite leather jacket without looking like a moron. In addition to the winter-like weather, Maine was also notoriously famous for its lobster, meaning that Dean could fill up on all the seafood he wanted before switching back to burgers—since shellfish was the only thing that could deter him from his favorite food anyway.

Heading toward the sputtering coffee pot sitting on a small kitchenette counter across the room, Dean grabbed his mug from yesterday off the TV stand and poured himself a cup. Taking a sip of the hot brew, he closed his eyes to let the smell wake him up. As he did so, the door to the room clicked closed, causing his eyes to pop open for a second time. In the doorway stood Sam, a smirk on his face at Dean's expression. "Hey."

"Hey yourself," Dean replied, taking another sip and letting the silence fall as Sam slipped behind his computer again to stare intently at the screen. Taking this as a good sign that his brother had found something up their alley, he let Sam continue to scour the web while he continued drinking his coffee.

After a few minutes, the sound of the portable printer they carried with them filled the room with its low hum as it ejected a page that shot toward Sam's outstretched hand. Catching it gingerly, Dean raised an eyebrow as his brother got up from his chair and headed toward him, paper held out as an offer to start a conversation.

"I think I got us a case."

"Yeah? What?"

Sam shook his head tiredly, as if to let his brother know that he wasn't in the mood to talk it over until Dean caught up with what he knew. Giving his brother a once-over before taking the paper, Dean could see that Sam's eyes were heavy with sleeplessness, overwhelming him with the urge to ask his brother whether or not he had been having nightmares again. Remembering that he had already done so somewhere between four and five in the morning, he bit back the question and snatched what looked like a document out of his brother's hand. Yawning, Dean set his mug down on the counter behind him to read what inked over most of page. What he thought was a document was actually an article from the _Brewer Morning News_ titled DEADLY CRASH MYSTIFIES LOCALS, SECOND TRAGEDY FOR BROWN FAMILY over a black-and-white picture of a smashed and bloody car that closely resembled an accordion.

**Bangor, ME –** It was approaching ten o'clock when Rebecca Donaldson, 34, of Bangor, Maine witnessed something she would never forget. It was a night that would not only change her life, but of those of the Whites, Munroes, and Browns living in the sleepy, neighboring town of Brewer.

The screech of tires and the rumble of a leaden diesel engine awoke Ms. Donaldson early Tuesday night as the sound carried in through her open bedroom window. Rushing to a balcony overlooking Union Street, she saw two vehicles collide—that of a small sedan and an oversized semi truck. While accidents like this have happened many, many times in the past in towns across the nation, the story Ms. Donaldson told reporters later that night differs in many ways from the cautionary tales worried parents often tell their children about driving on heavy-traffic roads at night.

According to Ms. Donaldson, the two automobiles were travelling at speeds much over the limit, heading toward each other as if playing a game of chicken. When neither vehicle swerved to avoid the other, the two collided in a sickening crash that would forever be seared into her memory. Unfortunately, the living nightmare didn't stop there. A moment after witnessing the accident, the big rig that had overtaken the sedan backed up and disappeared. Not by driving away, however, but by vanishing into the night by way of smoke.

When asked to explain it, Ms. Donaldson seemed at a loss for words. "I can't tell you that what I saw made any sense, because it didn't, but I saw it with my own two eyes. The truck backed up before becoming nothing but wisps. It was like the wind had taken it away."

Authorities, on the other hand, seem to be taking the tale with a grain of salt, attributing the lack of evidence proving the woman's story as an illusion. While there are no tire tracks, chips of paint from the truck, or anything else that would point to another vehicle being involved, officials claim to have the answer to the mystery.

"We've had many hit-and-run incidents like this one in the past," Sheriff William Harris says. "Though, a disappearing truck, while illogical and impossible, has never been used as an explanation before."

When asked what the police believe is behind the collision, Sheriff Harris remained tight-lipped, only saying one more thing before returning to his work. "It's possible that the girls hit a retaining wall and spun out of control."

Rebecca Donaldson, however, remains firm in her belief of a "ghost truck", as she calls it, telling anyone who will listen the story of what had happened during the night. While there are many who choose to ignore her claims, there is no one so disbelieving as the families of the deceased. Upon receiving the call of the accident, the parents of Alexandra White (18), Emily Munroe (18), and Carla Brown (18) arrived on the scene moments after the police.

However, an accident so severe shadows over only one more experienced within Bangor city limits—that of Carla Brown's own father, Robert. In December of 2005, Robert Brown was driving home from his shift at the shipping yard in Portland when a moving truck barreled through the divider on I-95, crashing into the driver's side of Robert's car.

The link between the two, it seems, will not be ignored by the authorities.

"It's possible the wrecks are connected," Bangor Police Department spokeswoman, Callie Hayes, says. "But we can't be sure since no one got a license number."

Still, a second crash near the same town has sent red flags up around both Bangor and Brewer, causing residents to become more cautious about taking to the streets. In addition to such realistic terrors, Ms. Donaldson's story is sending a few members of both towns into high alert, some even taking precaution and holing up in their houses until the driver responsible for the wreck is uncovered.

While most find that to be an absurd measure, until the vehicle behind the collision is discovered, no one really knows whether the police have an inebriated trucker on their hands or something much more sinister sweeping the town.

Scratching the back of his neck, Dean raised an eyebrow before placing the article on the counter behind him and picking up the half-empty cup of coffee. Shooting Sam a look as he noticed his brother had taken a seat on the bed while Dean had been reading, he saw the same warring conflictions on Sam's face as Dean was feeling inside. He hated articles like that, the ones that sounded like a ghost story rather than actual news. They had already been tricked once by something similar, it was the reason they were in town in the first place, and he didn't want to be made a fool of following a false story again. He wanted an actual job, and if this one turned out to be a fake, he and Sam were packing up and leaving town as soon as possible.

However, while Dean knew that most small towns were starved for entertainment and sensationalized whatever they could, something about the article had sparked something in him. The story of a disappearing big rig was eerily similar to something both he and Sam had faced not long ago in Mississippi, a job involving a "ghost truck" running people down on a stretch of highway not far from Adamsville. While up until then he had never heard of anything like that, it now seemed as though the idea wasn't as one-of-a-kind as he had originally thought. That was, of course, _if _the news reporter wasn't using scandalous ideas in order to rope people into the article—and he was hoping that wasn't the case.

Deciding to see what his brother thought, Dean tapped the story behind him absently with his fingertip and glanced at Sam over the edge of his upturned mug. Lowering it, he nodded at his younger brother. "So, what're you thinking? We got another racist vehicle on our hands?"

Smirking, Sam shook his head and rubbed his eyes. "Not this time."

"Think it's legit?" Dean frowned.

At the question, Sam stopped what he was doing and lowered his hands to fidget with the cell phone he had shoved into his pocket upon entering their room. After a moment, he sighed. "I don't know. I called a few people this morning to check into it, but they're on opposing sides. The cops think it's one thing, while some of the other people I talked to think it's something else. No real way to know unless we check into it."

"Well, I ain't complaining," Dean nodded, draining the last of his coffee. "It's better than sitting here twiddling our thumbs with nothing to do. Who should we hit up first?"

Sam bit his lip before getting to his feet and crossing over to his computer sitting on the bistro set beneath the window. Looking at a list scribbled on a legal pad, he ran his finger down a line of names before stopping on one. "The Browns. The article said Robert Brown was involved in a semi accident before. If anyone knows whether or not there's some _ghost truck_ after them, he would."

"You sound skeptical," Dean grinned.

"Yeah, I know," Sam sighed. "I guess I'm kind of expecting another letdown."

Sighing in agreement, Dean pushed himself off of the counter he had been leaning against and headed toward the bathroom portion of their room to grab his toothbrush. Running it under the water and squeezing a bit of Crest on the bristles, he looked at Sam through the mirror before sticking the thing in his mouth.

He could sympathize with Sam's conclusion that they were on a path to nothing, but was slowly becoming intent to stay positive. Maybe if they looked further into it, they'd discover something under the surface. If the car crash lead turned into a dud, it was possible there was a case hiding somewhere in town that the news wasn't covering. Hell, if it came down to it, maybe they could ask Rebecca Donaldson if she had seen anything weird. She seemed to be one for believing in the paranormal.

Rinsing out his mouth, Dean placed the toothbrush on the countertop and turned toward the shower, grabbing jeans and a t-shirt off a stack of clothes at the edge of the sink. In the reflection, he could see Sam's raised eyebrow in the background, followed by a small smirk. Dean knew that look. Sam had already established their personas, and it wasn't something he was going to like.

"You're kidding," Dean scoffed, slapping his hands at his sides. "The monkey suits again? C'mon, man! I hate those things."

"The 'monkey suits' get us farther than just the badges," Sam sighed, rolling his eyes as if the point was already obvious. "We can't keep pretending to be reporters and expecting to get into things like police reports, and we don't have enough cash to pay off corrupt cops."

"Maybe you don't," Dean mumbled, dragging his feet as he crossed over to the dresser beside the dividing wall to the bathroom and grabbing the black-and-white suit hanging from one of the drawer pulls. Rolling his eyes, he shuffled over to the bathroom, silently wondering if it would be better to sit around instead of wearing a stupid suit for the third case in a row. When he and Dad had been hunting while Sam was away at Stanford, they hadn't even considered a change of outfit, but instead bribed their way to information. Now that his younger brother was with him, Sam insisted on playing dress-up whenever they got the chance—which meant whenever Sam thought he could call the shots.

Deciding that putting the damn thing on was better than doing nothing in a motel room for another week, Dean shut the bathroom door behind him, careful to make sure that Sam heard his grumbling from across the room.

"Stupid monkey suits."


	4. Chapter 3

Available for download in PDF. I promise you that I don't have any viruses. I just **strongly recommend **it seeing as this was written in book format. Visit the Tumblr dedicated to this series, "11785", for details.

Or just read it here (:

THREE

The Brown Residence  
>Brewer, Maine<br>Wednesday, August 2, 2006  
>9:30 AM<p>

**T**he Brown's house sat at the very end of Rosebud Lane, its blue façade faded under the overcast August sun. As Dean pulled into the empty driveway taking up only a fraction of the huge yard outside of the Colonial, Sam couldn't help but stare at the large assortment of lawn ornaments taking up residence beside the step-up porch railing. Pink flamingos, giant gnomes, and bird perches were all stuck into the grass at various angles, some even coming together as they leaned toward one another. In the middle of the yard was a large maple tree with hummingbird feeders stuck in the branches, along with a tire-swing that looked like it hadn't been used in quite some time.

As Sam popped open the door to the Impala, he glanced at Dean over the hood to see him fumbling with the collar of his coat before stuffing an FBI badge into the lining. Doing the same, Sam placed it in a pocket for easy reach before slamming the door shut and leading the way to the Brown's front porch, thankful that Dean had stopped his complaining.

Since getting out of the shower, his brother had been whining about having to put a suit on, dropping subtle hints that the next case they find will involve simple aliases that don't require wearing a tie. At first, Sam had shrugged off the bitching as crankiness, but when it had continued almost all the way to their destination, a headache had begun to form at his temples. Fortunately, it seemed Dean had slipped out of grumpy-older-brother mode and into the patented Winchester hunter mentality upon turning onto Rosebud, forgoing the grouchiness for complete focus on what they both hoped turned out to be a case.

_If this is another fake poltergeist, we're out of here_.

Reaching forward, Sam rang the bell and rocked back on his heels as he waited for the front door to open. After a few minutes, the sound of high heels against tile flooring came from the other side before the thick wood in front of them swung wide to reveal a short woman with frazzled blonde hair, tired blue eyes, and thin, chapped lips standing at the threshold. Upon seeing them, she gave them a sad smile. "Can I help you?"

"Mrs. Melina Brown?" Sam asked, reaching into his coat pocket to flash his badge as the woman nodded. "We spoke on the phone. My name is Special Agent Sam Cates and this is my partner Dean Hammond."

Melinda swallowed hard and took a deep breath. "Of course. I just… I don't know if now's a good time."

Sam nodded and gave the woman a small, reassuring smile. Of all the things about the job he hated, this part had always been the worst for him. Bothering people directly after losing a loved one, probing them into reliving the incident, was the hard part for him—especially now after being on the receiving end of the questioning with Jessica's death. After the fire, the police had been specifically inquisitive when it came to how the blaze had started, and didn't seem to believe Sam when he told them he didn't know. Though he hadn't been arrested or charged with arson, the cops had made sure to show up at the motel room he and Dean were staying at nearby at least twice to root around in Sam's brain some more. After awhile, he had been so fed up that he threatened to have them charged with misconduct, which scared them away for good.

However, this part of hunting had always come naturally to Dean, who seemed to specialize in interrogation. Stepping forward, he nudged Sam behind him as he nodded to the woman, giving her one of his trademark Dean Winchester charming smiles that seemed to work on almost every woman and cause Sam to want to roll his eyes. Holding it back, he watched as Dean worked his magic. "We'd just like to ask a few questions and we'll get out of your hair. Is your husband home?"

Conceding under Dean's grin, she returned a grim one before stepping aside to let them pass. "He's in the kitchen. I can get him for you," she frowned as she waited for them to slide past her into the foyer. "Would you like some coffee? We just put on a fresh pot."

"No. We're fine, thank you," Sam answered, biting his lip.

Nodding in return, Melinda about-faced and quickly walked down the hallway before them, leaving Sam and Dean by an archway to a room which appeared to be a small library. The corridor in front of them was decorated with yellow walls and white flower stencils running along the top. The floor was a white and brown tile that continued all the way to where the hall split in two different directions, the left of which Mrs. Brown had disappeared down. In the library, dark wood ran to the ceiling, punctuated with built-in bookshelves lined with aged hardcover novels. In the center of the room was a desk with a large computer and an office chair sitting off to the side. A pair of couches sat facing toward one another on a faded ornate rug near the window to outside, curtains drawn shut.

Following Dean inside, Sam automatically headed for one of the shelves, scanning some of the titles. _War and Peace_, _Vanity Fair_, and _Ulysses_ stared back at him amongst others, some of the bindings cracked from overuse. Behind him, Dean read over his shoulder, his brow deeply furrowed in thought. "Guy must read a lot."

"One does pick up the habit when confined to a chair," a deep voice said to their left, causing both brothers to whip around. Perched on the corner of the rug in a electric wheelchair sat who could only be Robert Brown. As Sam glanced him up and down, he saw a thick red beard, beady brown eyes, and a protruding gut that rested on his withered thighs. On his head to cover a bald spot was a black bowler hat that seemed out of place compared to his gray Portland Sea Dogs t-shirt and faded blue jeans, both of which had grease stains smeared on them in various places.

Seeming to notice Sam's gaze, Robert cleared his throat and glared pointedly at the Winchesters, who quickly flashed their badges for him. Nodding in acceptance, he wheeled himself over to the shelf Sam had just been eyeing. "After becoming paralyzed, my wife thought she could comfort me with books. She went to every used bookstore in town to hunt down the classics, which have to be some of the most boring things I've ever read. I hate to see what she's going to give me now that Carla's gone. Hopefully not something stupid like model trains. I have even less patience for those."

He smiled sadly as he turned around to face Sam and Dean, both of whom were frowning. Straightening up, Sam cleared his throat and pulled a palm-sized legal pad from his inside coat pocket and flipped it open, uncapping the pen attached to it with his teeth. When he was ready, he nodded toward Dean, who stepped forward. "Mr. Brown—"

"I can already guess what you're going to say," Robert cut him off, sighing deeply. "You want to know what happened with my daughter, right? Well, I can't tell you that exactly. All I _can _tell you is what I've already said to the cops."

"Which is?" Dean asked, glancing at Sam for a moment before looking back down at Robert Brown.

"I got up somewhere around 9:30 to go to the bathroom and heard them talking. Alex, my daughter's friend, was saying something about needing to head back to the Blockbuster they had just been at in the next town over, Bangor, for… something. I don't know what it was. Maybe one of them forgot their wallet or lipstick or whatever. Whatever it was, though, they left in a hurry. At the time, I didn't think anything of it. Carla and her friends are always rushing out of here to go somewhere else, usually the mall. I just figured that time wasn't any different and didn't try to stop them. I wish…"

He trailed off there to look at the floor, his grief now apparent in his face. Sam swallowed hard and bit absently at the tip of the pen cap, knowing how difficult it is to feel as helpless as Robert Brown obviously felt. He knew the man was thinking of all the things he should have done, including stopping the three girls from leaving the house that night. It was a sorrow that had swallowed Sam entirely the night of Jessica's death, leaving him almost numb as he answered the police's first round of questions.

Giving Robert a minute to drown in his distress, Sam glanced around the room, his eyes falling on a framed five-by-seven photograph sitting on the corner of the computer desk. Through part of it was hidden by the way it was turned at an angle, he could see the smiling faces of three girls dressed in cheerleading outfits, their arms wrapped around each other. It was obvious that the picture wasn't recent, seeing as the girls in the image looked around nine or ten, but it instilled a sadness throughout the room. Shooting his brother a furtive glance, he tried to keep his mind from imagining losing Dean, the one person he had known as long as the recently deceased had known each other. Unfortunately, the more he fought against his wondering mind, the more he felt dragged into his nightmare from earlier that morning. Blinking twice to push it away, flashes of fire flickered over his closed eyelids before fading away.

"Mr. Brown," Sam said, clearing his throat, "you were involved in an accident like this last year, weren't you?"

"I was," Robert nodded bleakly. "You don't think that has anything to do with the girls, do you?"

"It's a possibility we're not ruling out," Dean cut in.

"No. Not possible," Robert said, his eyes switching between Sam and Dean. A hardness formed there the longer he watched them, his brow furrowing into a scowl. "The driver of that truck—the one in _my _accident—had been apologetic. He had fallen asleep at the wheel, and even paid for my hospital bills. His license had been revoked for two years for endangered driving. I doubt he'd come back and do the same thing again, _especially_ on purpose. He learned his lesson the first time around."

"You don't think this was an accident?" Sam frowned.

Robert shook his head and deepened his scowl. "I know it wasn't. If there's only one thing I believe that comes out of Rebecca Donaldson's mouth, it's that. That truck had to be coming straight for them. No other way."

"Did anyone ever see the truck? Did you?" Dean asked.

"I didn't. No one did," Robert sighed. "Then again, Alex's car wasn't big enough to do any damage to it. I'm sure the guy just drove off without another blink of an eye."

Glancing at Dean, Sam saw his brother nod in agreement before biting his lip.

Suddenly, the ringing of a telephone somewhere in the depths of the house startled the three of them, causing Robert to straighten up. Wheeling into the other room, he disappeared for a second before reemerging with a black cordless in his hand. Staring at the caller ID, he groaned. "I have to take this. Are we through here, gentlemen?"

"We're through," Dean nodded. "Thank you for your time."

Shaking hands just as the man answered the phone, Dean lead the way out of the house and toward the Impala. When they were safely inside the privacy of their vehicle, Sam waited for his brother to start the engine before turning to look at him. Dean's brows were furrowed in a thoughtful expression, mirroring the one Sam knew was on his face. Though Robert Brown hadn't given them anything they hadn't already known—with the exception of where the girls had been headed right before the incident—he had a feeling they were on the path to something. Cars didn't crash on their own, and he doubted anyone would be heartless enough to leave the scene of an accident without seeing the damage they left behind.

As Dean pulled away from the curb and headed back down Rosebud Lane, Sam sighed and rolled his shoulders back. So far they had a disappearing truck and a fatal crash much like that of one of the victim's fathers. If Robert was right in saying that the driver from the first accident wouldn't repeat it again, then they were at square one in terms of motive. Some_one_ or some_thing_ had to have wanted Carla Brown, Alex White, and Emily Munroe dead, but the question was… why?

Glancing out the window, Sam bit his lip. It was possible that the three girls had been victims of happenstance, though that was unlikely. Ghost trucks or whatever they were dealing with didn't just attack at random, they had reason. And whatever that reason was, Sam was curious to find it out.

"Hey," Dean said suddenly, snapping Sam out of his thoughts. "What street was that accident on?"

"Uh…" Sam frowned, leaning forward to pop open the glove box and pull out the printed article he had stashed in there for reference. Flipping it around, he scanned the page before landing on the answer. "Union Street. Next town over. Why?"

"I think we should check it out. See if there's anything the cops missed. Anything that might lead us to what we're dealing with or why it's hunting down the Browns."

"You think this thing's going after them?" Sam asked, placing the article back in the glove box and shutting the door.

"I don't know," Dean shrugged, taking a right at the light. "I mean, two people in the same family? Kind of sounds like whatever this is is zeroing in on them."

"But the same type of accident?" Sam frowned. "Sounds like a stretch."

"Maybe, maybe not," Dean nodded. "But we can't ignore the fact that two people in the same family got hit. Maybe the guy was lying when he said the trucker that nearly killed him had done it on accident and been sorry about it. Maybe he just wanted us out of his hair so he could go back to grieving. I don't know."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "You really believe that?"

"Not really, but we have to keep out options open."

Nodding in agreement, Sam slumped in the passenger's seat as Dean directed them toward Bangor, Maine.


	5. Chapter 4

Available for download in PDF. I promise you that I don't have any viruses. I just **strongly recommend **it seeing as this was written in book format. Visit the Tumblr dedicated to this series, "11785", for details.

Or just read it here (:

FOUR

Blockbuster Video  
>Bangor, Maine<br>Wednesday, August 2, 2006  
>11:23 AM<p>

**R**iley Storp hated her job at the Blockbuster Video in the podunk town of Bangor, Maine more than she could describe. Not only was the place surrounded by the most boring of buildings on the most boring of roads, but the people that came in seemed to have the cinematic interests of a twelve-year-old. The same customers came in, week after week, renting the same movies they had seen about nine hundred times with absolutely no variety.

From where she sat in the video room behind the check-out counter, she could see the main lobby of the store through the small six-by-twelve inch window in the door. Without fail, Mr. Gunderson, the owner of the Pick-N-Save down the road, was browsing the Foreign section for his favorite, _Amélie_. As he gave each shelf careful consideration, though both of them knew the film was the first one on the top row, he pursed his lips and frowned deeply, looking as though he was concentrating on the titles of each passing box. Riley knew this was just for show since Gunderson always rented the same movie, but watched him anyway. The poor man probably had nothing else going for him on Wednesday mornings.

After a long moment, he pawed blindly for _Amélie _before heading for the counter and out of sight. Biting her lip, Riley leaned back in her chair to try to spot someone else to watch, someone who would help further procrastinate her work. When no one else came into view through the small window, she sighed and turned back to the media setup in front of her. A simple ten-inch television with built-in VCR stared back at her from a makeshift table constructed out of two roll-away cabinets and a slab of plywood. Management had placed it there after a swell of complaints about people not rewinding their rented tapes, following the feeble attempt at a desk with a new job for the new clerk that put her in a chair for hours on end, watching movies backwards until the illustrious blue screen with a giant white "STOP" told her she was back at the beginning of the film.

For a month prior to that, Riley had been working behind the counter, ringing people up and talking to the customers—which was how she had known about Mr. Gunderson and his love for French romantic comedies. It was the stupid kind of mind-numbing activity she needed to keep from thinking about her horrible vacation and the serial rapes that had taken place on the U of M campus during the summer semester. After the news had broken about the incidents, Riley had left school in the middle of term in order to return back to Hampden and her mom. Unfortunately, her mom hadn't been as understanding about the reason behind dropping a class she needed to graduate and had given her the ultimatum that Riley would either get a job or find somewhere else to live. Though she had explained a hundred times that the leave of absence was temporary, her mother didn't seem to listen and was set in her mind that her daughter was becoming a failure.

Ultimately, it wasn't just the idea of serial rape that had scared her away from her dorm room on campus. When her friend, Marta, had come back to their dorm room from a nearby party the morning after the event claiming she had woken up in a strange house without any clothes on, that's when Riley packed her bags. If she had one fear in life, it was that. Riley had promised herself and God that only one person would claim her virginity, and it wasn't about to be some stranger who couldn't control himself. After making sure Marta was alright, Riley had left U of M near the end of June and hurried home. Even after she was gone, the UMaine website continually told her of more and more attacks, making her glad of her decision, despite her mother's opposition.

However, it seemed the near twenty miles she had put between herself and the school didn't deter her from having nightmares of the act happening to her. Night after night, she tossed and turned until waking up panting and reaching for the lamp on her bedside table with such haste that she had knocked it over at least twice in her rush to flip it on. Once she made sure her room was clear, Riley slowly lowered herself beneath the blankets once more before returning to sleep. Thankfully, the horrendous dream didn't return for the rest of the night, allowing her to sleep peacefully until morning.

Last night, though, had been something else. After waking up in a heap of sheets and performing her nightly ritual of checking for a hidden rapist, the nightmares hadn't receded. Instead, they returned twice more before her alarm jolted her awake at nine. Sluggishly, she had pulled herself out of bed and contemplated calling into work before her mother had begun to rant about the noise of the clock. Deciding that sitting in the back room of a Blockbuster for eight hours straight was preferable to listening to the ravings of her mom, Riley had gone in and almost immediately began staring out the small window to the rest of the building. Though she had a quota of tapes to rewind, a number her manager had thought up out of the blue on the first day of the new position, she figured she could catch up through lunch. Right now, her mind wouldn't be able to handle reading the label on the side of the box, matching it with the name tacked to the VHS, then sticking it into the VCR for anything. She was too fired to focus.

Despite the fact that her job was a mind-numbing procedure of making sure everything was in order, it took a level of concentration comparable to the way Mr. Gunderson had been staring at the racks of foreign films. Along with ensuring the movie returned was at the beginning, she had to tick off the name of the renter, and the tapes were never in order. Pages upon pages were shoved under the holder of a clipboard, disheveled and sticking out at odd angles, and printed in such small font that she had to squint her eyes in order to make out a lot of the titles. As the movie rewound, she almost always searched for the previous borrower in the meantime, which usually took longer than the speeding machine. Upon walking in, she had tried to complete the task, but everything on the page came out as a black-and-white blur.

Turning away from the window, Riley sighed and reached for a tape box, shaking it to make sure it wasn't empty. When she heard the rattle of plastic inside, she pulled at the clasps sealing the case and compared the film sticker to the name tacked on the side. When she saw that they matched, she shoved the VHS into the player and hit rewind before turning to the small text on the clipboard. When she saw that the movie she was looking for wasn't on the first few pages, she continued flipping until she found it. Marking it off, she removed the tape from the VCR and placed it in a different pile.

Rubbing her eyes, she made a move to continue just as the door behind her creaked open, startling her. Turning around in the swivel chair, she saw her manager, Ramona, standing in the doorway with a new stack of tapes. Crossing the room, she set them down next to the other heaping, unwatched stack before picking up a slender box off the top. Tapping it with her finger, she held it out for Riley to grab.

"This was just returned, but I'm not sure if it's the right disc inside. Think you can check it out and give me a holler if it winds up being a porno or something?"

Glancing around the room, Riley blindly took the movie from Ramona. "Do we have a DVD player in here?"

"Oh," Ramona frowned, her eyes following Riley's around the small space. "I guess not. There's one in the break room, I think. If not, we can probably dig one out of storage to hook up in here. Check the break room first, though."

Without another word, Ramona turned on heel and headed out the door. Biting her lip, Riley popped open the DVD box in her hand and looked at it. A simple silver disc stared up at her, the top of it matted as if to be used as a writing surface. Sighing, she got to her feet and followed her boss out, then headed around the counter and down the middle aisle between the two long rows of movies. At the end, separating the wall of new releases, was a door leading to the break room. Pushing in the three-digit key on the panel above the handle to enter, she turned the knob at the flash of the green light.

Once inside, the stark white room nearly blinded her against the dimness of the store. Colorless cabinets, banquet tables, and chairs stood out amongst the gray linoleum floor. A TV on a rollaway stand sat in front of one of the tables, its screen the white and gray of static. Beneath it on the tray sat a small DVD player with a palm-sized remote perched precariously on the edge.

Crossing the room, Riley let the door slam shut behind her and waited a moment before bending down to mess with the device. As soon as she pushed the "on" button, the familiar blue screen appeared on the set before the lid sitting on top popped open on its own. Placing the disc inside, she glanced around for anyone who might be hiding within the confines of the space, and hit play. As she disc loaded, she hoped someone wasn't standing too close to the door outside in case the returned movie was something x-rated. She didn't want loud moans and screams carrying through to the outside lobby.

An FBI screen loaded, quickly followed by a plain white screen that matched the room around her. Grinning in silent relief that she wasn't about to be scarred for life, she watched as the white screen became the black shape of two figures, one male and one female, silhouetted against the background. For a moment, she watched confusedly as the forms chased one another in circles before stopping somewhere near the middle of the frame. After a second, the two figures blinked into color as they faced one another, though they were too bright and blurry at first to be recognized. A moment later, Riley gasped in surprise.

Standing in the middle of the screen, dressed exactly as she was now, was the short, lean form of herself. Opposite her was a much taller man with burly shoulders and muscular arms, dressed in black from head to toe. His blonde hair was closely shaved and a bulbous nose protruded from his face above a deep sneer. In his hand, tucked behind his forearm, was a switchblade, which gleamed against the brightness of the white background.

Taking a step backward in shock, Riley collided with one of the banquet tables and yelped in surprise, but didn't look away from the screen. Instead, she kept her eyes focused on the television set as the movie played out in front of her. In the frame, the man lunged for Riley as she tried to turn and run, his knife falling to the floor as both of his hands grasped her wrist. Pulling her toward him, he bent down for the knife before pushing both the blade into her throat and her shoulder blades into his chest. Silently, she begged for mercy, but the man did nothing but smile, obviously enjoying every second of his assault.

"Take it off," he mouthed, shoving her to the ground. She landed in a quiet thud on the floor before staring bewilderedly up at him. "All of it! Now!"

Backing away from him on all fours, she tried to get to her feet, but was shoved down again. This time he pinned her to the floor, straddling his legs over her stomach, and held the knife point over her heart. Her breathing became labored both in the video and as Riley watched the silver blade rise into the air on film. A second later, she gripped the table for support as the dagger came down seven times in rapid succession before the video became nothing more than a blank white frame again.

_What…_

Taking in a deep breath through her nose, Riley reached for the power button on the TV with a shaky hand and switched it off. When the screen turned black, she stared at her reflection in the dark glass for a moment. Brown hair, blue eyes, and thin lips looked paled even in the makeshift mirror. She didn't understand how that could happen, how she had seen what she had seen. The video had been as real as if filmed professionally, but she knew she had never done anything like that. It was possible that the girl in the video hadn't been her but someone else she resembled, but she quickly pushed that thought away. It was her. She _knew _it was her. The details of her facial features were too exact to be a look-alike.

Glaring at the ground, she took two deep breaths and tried to steady herself. What she had seen on tape was exactly what had been happening in her nightmares for the past month. The only difference between her dreams and the video, however, was the clarity of it. In her dreams, her attacker never had much of a form, which hadn't seemed strange until she woke up. She had always known it was someone stronger than her, and definitely someone terrifying—a person who could easily overpower her. Fortunately, she hadn't known anyone who fit the description, which always gave her peace of mind whenever she woke up in the middle of the night. It seemed the film—or whatever it was—had given face to her imaginary attacker, though she had never seen anyone with those characteristics before, and hopefully never would again.

Sniffling, she rolled her shoulders back and glanced at her reflection in the television screen once again. Her face had regained some of its color, though not much. Behind her were the white cabinets and tables, and she stared blankly at them for a moment, trying to remember what she had originally come into the room for. Unfortunately, all her mind could recollect were flashes of the video.

Gazing deeper into the glassy surface, something over her shoulder caught her attention. Blinking in and out was the black shape of… _something_. Turning around, she tried to find the source of the reflection, but saw nothing. Glancing back at the television, she saw it again, fading like the bars of a cell phone reception. It towered over her for a brief minute before winking out of existence, then appeared once again a moment later. Finally, after a few seconds, the figure solidified into that of her attacker.

Gasping, she jumped away from him, but his arm wrapped its way around her chest like a python tethering its prey. When her back was pressed against his steely chest, she straightened and swallowed hard as he bent forward to sniff her hair.

"You can run but you can't _hide_."

A glint of silver caught her eye, but the man's arm kept her from struggling away from him. As she thrashed helplessly against his pull, the knife she had seen in the video made its way up to her throat, sharply caressing her skin. "No…"

In the reflection, Riley could see a smile growing on the man's face while the blade moved down her sternum toward the buttons of her blue polo shirt. "Yes!"

"No, no! Please!"

His breath was hot on her neck as he laughed, retracting the blade back up to her throat. "Don't worry, princess. I'll be quick."

As if to show her what he meant, he pulled the knife away from her skin and let it glint off the overhead fluorescents. Riley's breath caught in her throat as she saw the man's eye in the shine of the dagger. It was narrowed, hard, fixated. As she stared at it, she realized the man was set on one thing, the thing she hadn't recognized as the deeper fear following the serial rape—the part of her dream that ended in murder.

Staring into the knife, she braced herself as the blade sliced through her chest.


	6. Chapter 5

Available for download in PDF. I promise you that I don't have any viruses. I just **strongly recommend **it seeing as this was written in book format. Visit the Tumblr dedicated to this series, "11785", for details.

Or just read it here (:

FIVE

Brewer Motor Inn  
>Brewer, Maine<br>Wednesday, August 2, 2006  
>12:30 PM<p>

_**S**__am lay on top of his bed, staring up at the ceiling of his apartment, frozen in place. The fire lapped at Jessica's rigid body, her face still held in an expression of surprise and helplessness. Though he desperately wanted to uproot himself from where he was trapped on the bed, he couldn't. No matter how much strength he tried to muster, his limbs seemed to be forced down by an invisible hand, rendering him just as stuck as his girlfriend above him._

_ Suddenly, the door to his right kicked open. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see his brother standing immobile in the doorway as he took in the sight of Sam's bedroom. Flames licked everything and were slowly climbing their way to the rest of the house, the heat of their frenzy scorching Sam's skin. _

_ "Sammy!" _

_ Dean's voice cut through the roar of the blaze, thought not by much. As his brother raced to his side, Sam felt Dean's cold hands on him as Dean pulled him away from the bed. Abruptly jolted out of his stupor, Sam fell to the floor and scrambled to his feet, his eyes still stuck on Jessica above him. "Dean, we have to—"_

_ "We can't!" Dean shouted over the growl of flames as they erupted threatening beside them, causing both of them to jump away from the bed. Within seconds, the mattress was nothing but a small bonfire in the middle of the room. "We have to get out of here!"_

_ Sam coughed a few times from the thin air, but refused to look away from Jessica. She was still fixed in the middle of the ceiling, the flames not lapping at her body, but around it. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought her to be an ice sculpture due to the paleness of her skin. _

_ "I have—"_

_ But before he could get the words out of his mouth to express his desire to drag Jessica from the flames and make sure she was alright, the door Dean had kicked open slammed shut. At the same time, the fire engulfed Jessica in an inward billow of flames before exploding outward. The blaze came dangerously close to his skin, causing Sam to duck beneath Dean as he pulled his brother into him._

_ "Sam, we have to go. Sam!"_

"Sam!"

Feeling a cold hand on him, Sam jolted awake, scrambling away from the frigid touch. Looking up, Dean's sage-green stare pierced into his as Sam felt absently for the hand his brother had grabbed only a moment ago. The grasp had been the same one as in his nightmare, causing his heart to beat quickly at the blur of dream and reality. He never wanted that to happen again.

"Nightmare?" Dean asked with a knowing glare.

Cradling his hand as if the contact with his brother had caused it to catch fire, Sam looked down apprehensively before glancing back up. Dean's hard gaze had softened a little by his younger brother's bothered expression, but his jaw was still set in a way that told Sam that Dean was holding back from unleashing a lecture.

Instead of saying anything, Dean returned to the table and single chair beneath the window he had been sitting at from the moment they had come back to their motel room. Upon the tabletop, Sam's computer was flipped open with Dad's journal beside it, probably grabbed off the floor from when Sam had accidentally fallen asleep. Dean's suit jacket was tossed over the back of his chair as he sat with his sleeves rolled up, red marks from the edge of the table on his forearms as if he had been hard at work for hours.

Glancing at the clock behind him, Sam saw that he had been asleep for about that long. After returning from the crash site, he had changed clothes and taken a seat on Dean's unmade bed, Dad's journal grasped in his hands as he flipped through the book he had nearly memorized for some kind of clue as to what they were dealing with. As he carefully read through each page for the hundredth time, he had begun to feel sleepy as he nestled further into the surprisingly comfortable mattress before inadvertently dozing off. He hadn't planned on it, but it appeared that the lack of anything useful had caused his brain to shut down in order to catch up on the sleep he had missed the night before. Unfortunately, though, nothing was different between then and his nap now. The nightmare had come again, a variant of the one before, but just as bothersome.

For a brief moment, he considered relenting under Dean's probing eye from where his brother glanced up casually every few seconds behind the computer screen, but decided against it. They were working a job. There was no reason to add to the confusion that was their current case.

And confusing it was.

After leaving the Brown residence, Dean had headed straight for the crash site off of Union Street in Bangor. The car ride over had been silent as the two of them sorted through the possibilities of the case on their own, only becoming interrupted as both Sam and Dean voiced their opinions on what might be behind it. Dean seemed under the impression that they were dealing with a ghost truck like in Mississippi, whereas Sam was doubtful when it came to the eye-witness, Rebecca Donaldson's, sanity. The last case they worked had involved a batty woman claiming her house was infested with poltergeists in Bayview, with every detail fitting the description of such a haunting. Ultimately, however, it turned out the noises she heard in the middle of the night and the lights flickering every now and then was the byproduct of the neighbor's kids tormenting the old lady. At the discovery, Dean had taken his frustration out on them before driving him and Sam further inland to stay nearby until something legitimate did pop up. He didn't want this case to be another one like the last.

Thankfully, the investigation of the accident site seemed to convince both Sam _and _Dean that they were working a genuine job. Upon arrival, his brother had made short work of the scene, putting his knowledge of all things automotive to use. According to him, a semi truck wouldn't be allowed on such a narrow road, especially one that wouldn't be able to handle the weight like Sam supposed Union Street couldn't. The thin strip of faded gray blacktop had hardly been wide enough to accommodate the Impala and a passing car, much less a sixteen-ton freighter. Also according to Dean, it was doubtful one had ever made its way down this patch of road before, seeing as the pavement was solid despite its age.

"Big trucks like that," Dean had said, walking to the middle of the lane to get a closer look at the streak of blood left near the faded dividing line, "leave the street messed up when they drive places they shouldn't. If a semi drove down here, it would have caused the road to crumble, like a foot in sand. We'd see holes in the road."

"Maybe it wasn't a semi," Sam had frowned.

At this, Dean had grimaced and shook his head. "You saw the accident photo. For a car to be _that_ messed up in a wreck, it'd have to hit something huge. And I'm talking bigger-than-a-Suburban huge." Pausing a moment, Dean had left the center of the road and headed for the Impala before turning to look at Sam over the hood. "I still don't get why it's after this family, though."

"The only way to know that is to look into them," Sam had said with a nod.

Slipping behind the wheel, Dean had started the car and turned back toward Brewer. After entering the motel room, he had delegated himself to looking into the Browns via Sam's computer and had remained silent since. Judging by the annoyed expression on Dean's face, he hadn't found much in the few hours that had passed.

Getting up from the bed, Sam headed toward the bathroom portion of the room to wash his face in an attempt to wake himself up. As the cold water from the tap splashed over his skin, he shut his eyes, only to be flashed with images from his dream. Shaking them off, he grabbed blindly at the towel hanging from the rack to his left and patted himself dry. When he was done, he looked at Dean through the mirror, who had shut the lid of the laptop closed and was now watching his brother from across the room.

"Nothing?" Sam frowned, turning around and resting against the sink.

"Nothing useful," Dean sighed, getting up to stretch. "If any member of the Brown family ever did anything that pissed someone off, it isn't in police records anywhere. I did learn that Robert Brown used to heavily attend and donate to his church before he got in the first accident, though."

Sam bit his lip. "Doesn't exactly sound like vengeance material."

"Just waste-of-money material," Dean muttered. "Anyway, I tried surfing the web for something that might be connected—similar accidents and what have you. Got nothing except for some weird story about a monster truck running someone over in Dallas in 1985."

Nodding, Sam crossed the room to pick up his wallet while Dean drummed his fingers absentmindedly against the computer. Flipping it open and checking his supply of cash, his stomach rumbled loudly, causing his brother to smirk. Rolling his eyes, Sam shoved his wallet into his pocket and looked at Dean.

"Grub run?" Dean asked.

"Yeah. Want anything?"

"Usual," Dean answered, turning back to the computer and flipping it open again. As the screen sprung to life, Sam grabbed one of their room keys off the hook by the door and slipped out, the sound of his brother shouting "Extra bacon!" coming through the crack in their open window.

The chilly Maine air nipped at him as he walked toward the diner at the edge of the motel's lot, causing him to pull his sweatshirt closer. By the time he reached the door, the cold wind had whipped his hair off of his face, which he fixed as he headed to the counter near the back of the small restaurant. Booths were lined up against the windows with a few customers sitting sparsely around them, most of them wearing t-shirts and jeans against what Sam would deem winter weather. In a booth to himself near the door sat an old man, his eyes staring blankly out at the cloudy, overcast day. For a moment, Sam thought he was asleep before the guy snapped straight up and glanced down at the pie in front of him.

"Can I help you?" a raspy voice asked, causing Sam to turn his attention to a tall, brunette waitress that looked oddly familiar. Frowning, he looked at her nametag before looking back into her green eyes, which flashed with confusion. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I, uh… two burgers and fries to go, please."

"No problem," the waitress, Kelly, smiled before scribbling down the order on a handheld notepad and taking it to a glassless window to the kitchen. As a large man dressed in white with a hairnet on his bald head grabbed for the paper she had ripped free, Kelly whispered something to him before untying the apron from around her waist and disappearing into a room off to the side.

When she was gone, Sam turned his attention to the TV set at the end of the L-shaped counter, which was broadcasting the local news at a low volume. The sleepy man in the booth near the door was now fixated on the set as if something riveting had appeared on screen. Turning toward it, Sam took in the blonde newscaster who spoke almost silently about something in the small picture of caution tape in the square beside her head. Exchanging a nod with the man, Sam reached for the volume button and turned it up.

"_Coming up on Action News Live at One, the murder of a Penobscot County teen has authorities baffled. Find out more with Dale Sanders and Marcia Wheeler at the top of the hour. Now back to Michelle and Gerard with entertainment news._"

Bunching his jaw, Sam sighed and flipped the knob back down to return the television to its indistinct hum. By the time he had done so, the waitress had returned, grabbing a sack of food and nodding toward him, before heading for an old register at the end of the counter. After ringing him up and letting her keep the change—something Dean would probably scold him for had he been there, but Sam was too focused on something else to care—he reemerged into the cold August day and beelined for the motel room.

Opening the door, he saw that Dean was already on his feet and tugging on his suit jacket, a look on his face that told Sam his brother already knew what he had heard on the news. Tossing Dean the bag, he crossed the room and began to unzip his sweatshirt while his brother glanced inside the paper sack. "No bacon?"

Sam didn't answer. Instead, he tugged off his t-shirt and looked at Dean through the mirror. "I think there are more pressing matters at hand. What do we got?"

Nodding, Dean set the bag down and picked up an inked-over page from the tray of the printer. "About an hour ago, girl gets stabbed in a Blockbuster break room. No one saw anyone go in or come out. By the looks of it, I'd think Albert Fish got to her before the cops did. Gruesome stuff."

"Blockbuster in Bangor?" Sam asked as he pulled up his tie. Dean nodded in response while Sam straightened his collar. "That's the same place Robert Brown said those girls were going before they died."

"Yeah, I know," Dean said.

Pulling on his suit jacket, Sam headed for the door, picking his FBI badge up off the nightstand between the beds as he crossed the room. Dean grabbed the sack of the food and the keys to the Impala before making their way out, tossing the keys to Sam as they walked toward the car. "You drive. I'm starving."

Rolling his eyes as his stomach rumbled again, Sam opened the door to the Impala and slid behind the wheel. "Try not to spill all over you clothes before we get there. It takes away from our credibility if you walk in with ketchup all over your shirt."

Dean shook his head and scoffed. "I won't! I'm not friggin five, Sam."

Satisfied with his teasing, Sam remained silent and waited for his brother to shut the door to the passenger's side before starting the engine and pulling away from the curb.


	7. Chapter 6

Available for download in PDF. I promise you that I don't have any viruses. I just **strongly recommend **it seeing as this was written in book format. Visit the Tumblr dedicated to this series, "11785", for details.

Or just read it here (:

SIX

Blockbuster Video  
>Bangor, Maine<br>Wednesday, August 2, 2006  
>2:01 PM<p>

**T**he front of the Blockbuster on Hogan and Longview was overcrowded with people as Sam and Dean pulled into a space across from the entrance of the store. Newspaper reporters, local gossips, and a handful of police officers blocked the doors leading inside, which had been sealed off at shoulder-height with caution tape. The sound of arguing was audible from across the lot as the Winchesters took a moment to sort themselves out, both checking to make sure their badges and handheld weapons were in a place of easy access.

Climbing out of the car, Sam looked at the chaos over the roof the Impala. A barricade was being set up to keep the swell of people at bay, probably as a precaution in case more onlookers joined the already large cluster. The officers he had seen in passing on the way in were shouting instructions to the demanding crowd as they yelled equally loud questions back at the policemen—"Is my son okay?", "My daughter works here!"—in which the uniformed men did nothing to indicate a response. Instead, the cops stood at the breaks in the barriers as the last one was laid in place, making sure that no one tried to head inside.

Crossing the lot, Sam noticed Dean's furrowed expression as the two rounded the crowd. Upon seeing them, the officer nearest—a tall, African American man with a shaved head and an irritated look on his face—nodded in recognition before holding up a hand to stop them. Sam and Dean complied, flashing their badges then stuffing them back inside the lining of their suit pockets. "Afternoon, gentlemen."

"Afternoon," Dean nodded. "I'm Special Agent Hammond, and this is my partner, Agent Cates. We're here about the dead girl."

Eyeing them for a long moment, the officer, whose nametag read R. Stewart, stared them up and down before clucking his tongue. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, a woman near them began to probe the policeman with questions, turning his attention away from the brothers. Taking the opportunity to slip away while Officer Stewart dealt with the inquisitive woman's commands that he tell her where her daughter was or else, Sam and Dean ducked under the caution tape strew over the open entrance and headed inside.

The lobby of the store was deserted in comparison to the parking lot. By the check-out counter stood a group of silent employees dressed in the uniform of a blue polo shirt and khakis, while a detective dressed in an even cheaper suit than the brothers wore asked each person whether or not they had seen anything. As each person shook their head solemnly in response, the detective jotted down a note in his handheld pad before moving onto the next. Across the way and between the aisles of different movie genres, a door to a room was propped open with a handful of officers standing at the threshold. Making their way toward it, Sam reached the cop watching them first before displaying his badge for the man. He was short, paunchy and seemed annoyed by their presence, causing Sam to raise an eyebrow at the angry glare the officer was throwing his way.

"FBI, huh? Why is it you guys always gotta show up at the tail end of things?" the man asked with a slight Brooklyn accent. "Just when we think we're done, there you are. Like a pack of lions picking at the remains of an antelope."

"We just got in from D.C," Dean lied gruffly, stepping forward. "Agent Cates and I were sent in from the main office to investigate. Our plane arrived late."

Seeming to accept this excuse, the cop nodded before offering a hand, his demeanor still icy. "Better late than never, I guess. I'm Sheriff Harris from the Penobscot County office. I'm guessing the local boys called you in?"

"That's right," Dean nodded.

"Richard tell you what's going on?"

"Enough to put the pieces together," Dean answered just as the two other officers crowding the entrance to the break room cleared out. "Girl was stabbed, but no one saw the perp, right? She was in there alone?"

"That's right," Harris sighed, leading the way into the break room that was now empty. Sam looked over the shorter man's head to get a good look at the space. Blood splattered the floor and walls, with trails of it drying slowly beneath a pair of banquet tables set up between a television and an old refrigerator. Beside the largest spot of blood was a television that was turned off and pushed aside, a handprint clearly visible on the glass as if someone had tried to use the surface to help themselves to their feet. Around the floor were little yellow triangles that were used as markers for the crime scene photographers, which Sam carefully stepped over as he made his way past his brother and the sheriff, who were discussing the finer details of the case.

Rounding the tables and chairs on the other side of the television set, Sam stepped lightly around the blood stains to get a closer look at the television. Beneath it, a DVD player with its tray popped out was sitting on a thin shelf, an open Blockbuster box sitting atop it. Grabbing the container, Sam read the side of it before putting in back in place and giving Dean a furtive nod. At his brother's look, Dean turned to Sheriff Harris.

"Would you mind giving me and my partner a few minutes to look around?"

Furrowing his brow for a moment, Harris eventually turned to leave, shutting the door to the room behind him. When he was gone, Dean rolled his shoulders back and pulled nervously on his tie. "Something about that dude freaks me out."

"I don't blame you," Sam replied absently, crouching down to inspect the pool of red at his feet. The gray laminate floor beneath him was now stained deeply of crimson, with prints telling him that the victim had tried to escape in the middle of the attack by sliding under the table. Blood continued under the banquet set in a streak all the way to the refrigerator, which had a set of handprints wrapped around the handle before a lighter scarlet showed that her body had been dragged in the opposite direction toward a cabinet in the back of the room. At the end of the line, another puddle of red collected, still obviously tacky by the way the florescent light fell on it, with a large part of it missing from where the victim's body had once been. "You said it was written in the article that a knife wasn't found, right?"

"Yeah," Dean replied, stepping over to the television and picking up the DVD box. "It said '_deep lacerations from a second party_' or whatever. Some smart-sounding mumbo-jumbo." He stopped a minute to read the title of the DVD that had once been sitting in the player. "Huh. Maybe she killed herself because she was forced to watch _High School Musical_ while on her break. A little Zac Efron goes a long way."

"Funny," Sam said flatly, standing back up. "So we've got an invisible killer and no murder weapon. Think this is related to the disappearing truck?"

"I don't know about a disappearing truck, but I do know about a disappearing man," a female voice said behind Dean, causing both brothers to whip around. A woman with dark red hair and hazel eyes stared up at them, her face puffy and blotchy from crying. Glancing down at the floor, her expression paled before returning her gaze back over to Sam. "You're those FBI guys I saw come in here, Agents Harold and Casey?"

"Hammond and Cates," Dean corrected. "And you are?"

"Ramona Wheeler. I was Riley's manager. I'm the one that sent her in here," Ramona sniffed, rubbing her nose self-consciously. "I guess you can say it's my fault she died. If it wasn't for me…" As she trailed off, Sam swallowed hard before stepping forward to block her view of the rest of the room, hoping that would make it easier for her to talk. When his shoulders were squared, he saw a small smile appear on her face, as though she was aware of what he was doing. "Thanks."

Nodding in response, Sam glanced at Dean as his brother crossed his arms. "You said something about a disappearing man?"

"Yeah. I was the one that found her—Riley. I was getting some complaints from the customers about weird noises coming from the back room and decided to check it out. When I came in here, Riley was on the floor, her chest open like someone was trying to hack something out of it, with a man standing over her. As soon as I noticed him, he disappeared in a cloud of black smoke. Just… _poof_."

"Did the black smoke come out of his mouth, or eyes, maybe?" Dean asked.

"No, no," Ramona shook her head. "No. _He _was made out of black smoke. One minute he was solid, and the next he disappeared into thin air like wind on steam. It was the weirdest thing I ever saw."

Frowning, Sam shot a look at his brother while Dean turned to the woman to ask her more questions. While he did that, Sam tried to think of a creature that could transform from machine to man to vapor. Demons, when leaving a body they were possessing, exited through their victim's mouth in a billow of black smoke, but didn't disappear entirely. There were spirits that could blink in and out of visibility, but couldn't become more than what they had been in life: human. As far as he knew, there wasn't a creature alive that could become two things at once except for a shapeshifter or a doppelgänger, and those things could only become other people.

Then there was the possibility that they were dealing with two things in the same town, though that was highly unlikely. Most supernatural beings tended to take precedence over an area lacking in the abnormal, making them the only weird thing within a hundred square miles. In all his time hunting—and apparently in all of Dad's time, too, since his journal never mentioned two creatures in the same place—it had always been one thing behind the strange attacks or sightings, never more, meaning the accident on Union Street and the death they were investigating now had to be related somehow. Unfortunately, Sam had no idea what could be behind it.

"Thank you," Dean's voice came, interrupting Sam's thoughts, just as Ramona nodded and exited the room. Before turning to look at his younger brother, Dean's eyes scanned the room one more time.

"What was that about?" Sam asked, watching as Ramona rounded the check-out desk across the store and began clicking around on one of the computers. "What's she doing?"

"Getting a log of the last transactions from Tuesday night."

Raising an eyebrow, Sam grinned in surprise. "Good idea."

Waiting a minute while Ramona returned with a sheet of paper, she handed it off to Dean before leaning beside him to point out things on the page. "This is the name of the renter and what they borrowed, then when it was due back and when it was returned." Pausing a moment, she glanced between Dean and Sam before her eyes finally rested on Dean. "If you need anything else, I'll be… outside."

Giving her a small smile, Dean waited for her to leave before focusing back on the document in front of him. Sam watched while Dean scanned the page, noticing that his brother's furrowed brow was deepening further. After a long moment, he handed the paper off to Sam and scoffed. "Huh."

"What?" Sam asked, looking down at the rental log. On the page were lines of various shades of gray, each outlining people's names and movie titles with dates listed underneath. At the very bottom of the page, he found WHITE, ALEXANDRA next to _High School Musical_ with a return date of earlier that morning. Glancing up, her shot a look at the open DVD tray and box above it, silently wondering if the connection between the two victims was an innocent Disney movie.

As if to show his brother that he was thinking the same, Dean crossed over to the TV and picked up the Blockbuster box again, closely examining it. After a long moment, he set it back down and frowned. "Well, this is new."

"What is?"

Glancing toward the door to see if anyone was eavesdropping near the threshold, Dean rounded over to Sam to point at the list. "These girls come in, rent a movie, then get hit by a giant truck. Next day, the thing's returned and one of the employees watches it, then gets the axe in a different, totally unrelated way. It's like the thing's cursed somehow."

"Cursed object?" Sam frowned. At Dean's shrug, Sam bit his lip. "I don't know. With those things, it's usually a personal relic that was taken from someone. I doubt anyone's going to be missing some movie they could easily replace. It has to be something else. Something we're missing."

"I'm open to suggestions."

Tapping his fingers against his thigh with one hand and folding the paper with another, Sam stuffed the log into the pocket of his jacket and sighed. He was willing to accept the idea that the movie was the link between the two victims, but he didn't know how or why the flick had suddenly become a fatal device. Maybe Dean was right and it was cursed, or maybe it was something else entirely. The only way either of them would know for sure was if they got their hands on the thing, which was going to be difficult considering it was missing from its holder.

Deciding that it was possible the police had taken it back to the precinct as evidence, Sam sighed and nodded toward the door to indicate to Dean that it was time to leave. On the way out, he stopped beside one of the officers milling around, whose eyes widened at the sight of Sam and Dean. Standing up straighter, the man stood at attention like an army officer, stopping short of giving them a salute. Holding back an eye roll, Sam cleared his throat. "We're looking for Sheriff Harris."

"Outside," the policeman said rigidly before pointing blindly toward the door.

Exchanging a smirk with Dean, Sam lead the way out to find Harris taking a drag from an almost-spent cigarette, nodding toward them in recognition of their appearance. After inhaling another deep breath of smoke, Harris flicked his cigarette away and coughed. "You guys done here?"

"Almost," Sam admitted. "Just need one more thing."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"The DVD that was in the player in the break room," Sam said.

At this, Sheriff Harris frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about, gentlemen."

"C'mon. You know," Dean piped up, "the disc in the tray. It was sticking out when we got there. One of your guys had to have taken it back to the station with them."

"There wasn't anything there," Harris said, his brow furrowing as his eyes bore into Dean's. "Trust me on this. I would have seen someone taking something like that. It's not exactly typical evidence."

Staring at the man for a long moment just like Harris had eyed him and Dean earlier, Sam glanced the sheriff up and down before deciding that neither of them knew what had happened to _High School Musical_. Nodding in response, Sam turned to Dean before heading for the Impala. While they walked, Dean glanced back at Sheriff Harris and scoffed. "Great crack police work. No wonder Stephen King writes novels about this place."

"Don't pull out your copy of _Carrie _just yet," Sam smirked. "Besides, this case isn't exactly up to Stephen King level just yet."

"I don't know, Sam. Movies killing people kind of sounds like something he would come up with," Dean shrugged before opening the car door. As the two climbed in, Dean sat back in his seat and glanced at his brother. "So, where do we go from here?"

Sam frowned, not exactly sure. They had two things to track down: where the DVD had run off to and information on how or why it was killing people. He and Dean could always return to the motel room and run an Internet search on news stories in the area over the past few decades to see if something similar had ever happened before, but he doubted that would get many results. He also doubted a trip to the Sheriff's Station to see whether or not one of the officers had taken the disc in for evidence would prove to be a good use of time. Whoever had taken the thing, if it hadn't just disappeared into a wisp of smoke like Ramona claimed Riley's attacker had, had to have been someone inside the Blockbuster. Unfortunately, whoever it was had probably stashed the movie some place he would never find, leaving asking around for it to be another waste of time.

In the silence, Dean reached forward to start the engine, the thoughtful quiet probably bothering him seeing as he had nothing else to do. As the Impala roared, Sam bit his lip and looked out the window. In the distance, a sign on the side of the road leading toward Brewer caught his attention and causing him to grin. Dean would hate the idea, but it was better than nothing. "I know where we should go."


	8. Chapter 7

Available for download in PDF. I promise you that I don't have any viruses. I just **strongly recommend **it seeing as this was written in book format. Visit the Tumblr dedicated to this series, "11785", for details.

Or just read it here (:

SEVEN

Brewer Public Library  
>Brewer, Maine<br>Wednesday, August 2, 2006  
>5:15 PM<p>

**D**ean really hated libraries. In fact, if he could choose one thing to give up in life, it would be those. The stark overhead lights, the overall sensation of quiet, and the dull people milling around caused him to lose interest in whatever fascinating thing might be uncovered within the various tomes Sam scrounged up from one of the shelves—which so far, his brother was batting zero in terms of discovery.

They had been inside the circular Brewer Public Library for over an hour with little in terms of results. Neither of them knew what they were searching for, whether it was a cursed object or something else, giving them no sense of direction when it came to figuring out exactly where to start. In an attempt to move from square one, Sam had requested copies of the newspaper all the way back to 1970, hoping it would lead them on the path of something like what they were dealing with happening before. Unfortunately, all they had discovered were articles about a double murder that had happened sometime in 1980 that had sparked a controversy, but nothing leading them to a strange death.

Deciding that he was better off perusing the aisles, Sam had gotten up from his chair and left Dean to browse through the rest of the newspapers. As he scanned each article, hoping for something to jump out, he could feel his mind wonder. A DVD killing people was something new, something that wasn't really heard of outside the realm of bad horror movies, along with the disc disappearing on its own. Objects usually didn't vanish without help unless they were cursed, though Sam was quick to discourage that theory.

"_Cursed object? I don't know. With those things, it's usually a personal relic that was taken from someone. I doubt anyone's going to be missing some movie they could easily replace. It has to be something else._"

Dean scoffed at Sam's words, both then and now, as he continued reading the decade-old articles splayed out in front of him. The harsh light above caused the newsprint to glow a bright gray, almost white, hurting his eyes. For a moment, he rubbed them before returning to scan a piece about a local woman winning a dog show. Groaning, he flipped the page and motored on.

Hopefully his brother would be back with some kind of "a-ha!" moment that would get the ball rolling, but he doubted that would happen anytime soon. Both of them were equally baffled over the case and were spending more time shooting down ideas instead of coming up with something valid. Tapping his finger on the tabletop as he read, Dean's eyes passed over mundane articles about domestic disputes in Portland and robberies in Bayview. If he didn't find anything that stuck out to him soon, he was going to give up and join Sam somewhere in the sci-fi section or wherever he was.

Suddenly, a pile of books dropped on the table, startling Dean. Looking up, he saw Sam staring fixedly at him with a raised eyebrow, as if surprised his brother had stuck with reading the stack of newspapers for that long. Shrugging him off, Dean folded the newsprint closed and pushed it toward the side of the table while Sam took a seat. "What'd you find?"

"Nothing that useful," Sam frowned. "Just taking a shot in the dark."

"This job is nothing _but_ taking a shot in the dark," Dean sighed, grabbing one of the paperbacks off the top of the heap to read the title. "Though I don't know how _Urban Legends and Their Roots_ is going to point us in the right direction."

"Some of the cases we worked in the past have been urban legends, Dean," Sam said. "The Hook Man, Bloody Mary…" Pausing a minute to take in Dean's disbelieving expression, Sam frowned again before grabbing the book out of his brother's hand. "Look, unless you have a better idea, then we have to look under every rock we come across—_including_ covering some old bases."

"Alright, alright," Dean conceded, raising his hands in surrender before reaching for another paperback volume off the stack, this one titled _Voodoo and its Virtues_ with a picture of a handmade doll on the cover. Flipping it open to the beginning, he scanned the table of contents then turned to the first page: _A History of Voodoo_. The font was decorated with splatters of blood around it, causing Dean to roll his eyes and wonder if the author of the book really knew what they were talking about or attempting to put a spin on the religion. Deciding on the latter, he cleared his throat and scanned a few paragraphs before snapping it shut. Across the table, Sam was engrossed in the Urban Legends book, appearing not to notice that Dean had given up reading.

Sighing loudly, Dean glanced over at his brother and smirked at the irritated look that had appeared on his face. Doing it again, he waited for Sam to groan loudly. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, no," Dean sighed. "I'm gonna go look around. Tell me if you find anything."

Getting to his feet, Dean was about to round the side of the table before Sam grabbed at his arm. Looking down at his brother, Dean furrowed his brows to see that Sam had his nose still buried in _Urban Legends_. After a few seconds, Sam let him go before putting the book down, a small smile on his face—one Dean often related to discovery. Sitting back down across from him, Dean leaned against the table while Sam looked around conspiratorially to make sure no one was eavesdropping. "I think I know what's going on."

"Okay, and?" Dean whispered, excitement building. Whenever Sam muttered those words, Dean couldn't help but become anxious at the idea of a hunt. Since they had had nearly two weeks of nothing, Dean was ready to wrap his hands around anything he could kill and beat it to a bloody pulp. Though he didn't know how that would apply in this case seeing as they were dealing with a movie disc, he was still holding out hope that there would be something tangible to throttle.

"You've seen _The Ring_, right?"

"Of course," Dean replied, raising an eyebrow. "What's that have to do with—_Oh_."

Shoving the Urban Legends book toward him, Sam tapped twice on a page near the center of the volume. "That movie was based on an actual story printed in the _Dallas Morning News_ back when the first Blockbuster opened there in 1985. According to this, three girls went in to rent an innocuous tape and were discovered dead the next morning, their bodies mangled as if a tiger had attacked them in the middle of the night."

Frowning, Dean looked at the black-and-white crime scene photo in the middle of the page before glancing back up at Sam, who was biting his lip in thought. "How's it work? You watch the thing, you die? That it?"

"More than that," Sam sighed. "It's a toss-up between the tape playing out your worst nightmare or something like in that movie where it's some weird, fear-inducing video. No one really knows except for the people who've watched it, and they don't really stick around to fill anyone in on the details."

Smirking at Sam's comment, Dean took a deep breath and read the snippet of information on it in the book. Apparently, the movie first appeared in Dallas in 1985, though no one knew where it came from. After a string of attacks, the police took the tape in as evidence, where it remained in lock-up until _Urban Legends_ was published—which a flip to the back cover told him 2004.

"_If often appears and reappears from crime scenes at will_," the text said, "_though that can be attributed to its owner slipping in undetected to remove it from the site of its latest attack._"

Biting his lip much like Sam was, Dean drummed his fingers absently against the tabletop, a thought suddenly striking him. Sighing, he slumped his shoulders and looked over at his brother. "They didn't have DVDs in 1985. Someone had to have converted it. Meaning the person who was behind it in 1985 is up with the times and still around." Slamming the book shut, Dean slid it over to the pile and slouched in his chair. "Great. How are we supposed to narrow down who's behind this thing, or even what they are? It can be any number of things."

"Not necessarily," Sam said, tapping his fingers against the tabletop in thought. "There aren't many creatures who'd use a movie to kill people. It has to be human. Or, well, it seems more like a human thing, anyway."

"Okay," Dean nodded. "But how do we find out who it is? If we start asking around, they'll know what we're doing and probably won't be all that chatty."

"Easy," Sam grinned. "It has to be someone who works in the store since they have to make sure the disc stays in circulation. We get a list of the employees, then do a search to find out which of them lived in Dallas back in eighty-five."

"Sounds like one of those easier-said-than-done deals," Dean frowned.

"C'mon, it won't be that bad," Sam smirked.

Relenting under Sam's grin, Dean returned the smile. "Whatever you say."

* * *

><p>If Dean had set up a bet against his brother over who would be right, he would have won. No matter how much Sam persisted the easiness of tracking down the employee list and matching it up with whoever had lived in Dallas in the mid-eighties would be, Dean wasn't buying it. By the time they had pulled up to the Blockbuster they had been investigating less than two hours ago, it was clear that the store was shut down for the night. Both the sign and the windows were darkened, and caution tape remained tacked to the entrance and exit doors. Near the return slot was a note pinned to a poster of <em>V for Vendetta<em>, which could only mean bad news for the brothers.

Slowing the car to a stop in order to let Sam out, Dean waited in the idling Impala for his brother to read the note before returning. After doing so, he rounded the front of the car and bent down to speak to Dean through the driver's side window. "They're closed for the rest of the week."

"Okay, so we break in and steal the list instead of ask for it," Dean said, raising an eyebrow under Sam's glower. "What's the big deal? You get the same result."

Sighing as if the reason was obvious, Sam rolled his eyes. "Because, Dean, I doubt they left the place unguarded. There are alarms to bypass, not to mention computer passwords. If we set any of those off, the cops will be here in a matter of minutes, and even our cover as FBI won't be able to bail us out of that one."

Groaning, Dean pulled at his earlobe, seeing Sam's logic but wanting to ignore it. All they needed was five minutes inside to get a list of schedules or time sheets or anything that would catalog the people working there. If they tripped an alarm, five minutes would be enough to slip in and out before the police appeared, since he knew it took them seven minutes to arrive on any scene.

Deciding to press their luck, Dean popped open the car door and headed toward the front entrance of the Blockbuster. Seeming to notice what his brother was doing, Sam opened his mouth to protest, but instead snapped it shut a moment later and slipped behind the wheel. If there was a chance of them being caught, one of them had to be the getaway driver, and despite the fact that Sam drove like a grandma, it was better than nothing.

Pulling out his lock-pick, Dean bent down in front of the door handle and squinted into the black frame in the fading light of day. He could barely make out the shape of the keyhole, but tried his best to listen for the click of the lock. After a few moments of tinkering, the sound of success came from the other side as the door propped open under Dean's slight nudge. Shoving his tools into his coat pocket, Dean pushed his way inside and immediately headed for the check-out counter.

_Has to be back here somewhere_.

Rounding the side of the over-sized desk, he immediately began opening folders and checking beneath the tabletop, glancing at his watch every few seconds to make sure he was out of there before the cops showed up—_if _they showed up. Peering around for some kind of alarm, Dean saw nothing tacked on the walls and shrugged. It was possible the town of Bangor was small enough that breaking-and-entering wasn't an issue. He had been to places where even the banks didn't have alarms since the population was low enough to prevent it—and also low enough to where everyone knew what their neighbors were up to every hour of the day. Ultimately, though, he had a feeling that wasn't the case with Bangor. There was an alarm system somewhere, he just wasn't seeing it.

Resuming his search, Dean crouched down to look through the cabinets beneath the countertop, finding nothing but empty VHS and DVD boxes below. Slamming the drawers shut, he glanced around before his eyes landed on a door to his left. Crossing over to it, he could see Sam through the windows, the headlights of the Impala now on as he drummed his fingers anxiously against the steering wheel. Smirking to himself, Dean headed into the other room and found nothing but a small TV and VCR on a makeshift table. Deciding there was nothing in there but those two devices, he closed the room off and leaned against the doorframe. There had to be something that would point him in the right direction.

Snapping his fingers in revelation, he made for the break room, which was already propped open from the investigation earlier. The blood on the floor seemed darker than before and the plastic yellow triangles were gone, but everything else looked the same. Stepping carefully over the splatters in the linoleum, he crossed over to the cabinet beside the refrigerator and opened the door. Inside was a bent out of shape folder with "schedules" written on the front in black marker. Flipping through it to make sure everything was inside, he sighed in relief just as the honking of a horn came from outside. In the distance, sirens were audible, causing Dean's heart to beat faster.

Stowing the binder under his arm, he bolted across the store and through the front door, shutting it behind him to make it look as though no one had gone inside after closing time. Tossing the folder into the backseat through the open window, Dean slid into the passenger's side and slammed the door shut just as Sam peeled away from the curb.

"Did you get it?"

Dean grinned as he turned around to see flashing red and blue in the distance.

"I got it."


	9. Chapter 8

Available for download in PDF. I promise you that I don't have any viruses. I just **strongly recommend **it seeing as this was written in book format. Visit the Tumblr dedicated to this series, "11785", for details.

Or just read it here (:

EIGHT

Perko's Café  
>Brewer, Maine<br>Wednesday, August 2, 2006  
>7:03 PM<p>

**S**am had seen Dean do some stupid things in his time, but the stint at the Blockbuster in Bangor was in a league of its own. After tearing away from the scene with the cops a mile from their tail, Sam had driven them back to the diner he had been in earlier. The waitress from a few hours ago, Kelly, was still fluttering from table to table on the other side of the restaurant while a blonde, Sarah, worked their half.

As Dean flirted shamelessly with her, Sam kept his nose buried in Dad's journal, glancing up every so often to take a bite of his salad and make sure his brother was still sitting opposite him. When everything was in order, he returned to trying to find anything he could about haunted video tapes. So far, the search was running dry.

On the other side of the table, Dean had Sam's computer popped open in front of him with the binder containing employee schedules folded back. Scanning each name line-by-line while running an Internet search on them, Dean marked off everyone who checked out with a bright red pen. Flipping the first sheet back, he began on the second, shooting glimpses at Sarah every minute or so to give her a small smile.

Rolling his eyes at his brother's multi-tasking, Sam continued reading. While there were write-ups on harpies, witches, werewolves, thestrals, and shapeshifters, there was nothing to point him in the direction he was hoping for. It seemed, in the twenty-plus years that Dad had been hunting, he had never encountered anything remotely _like_ a haunted video tape—or even a cursed object. Most of what Sam knew about those were from his own research and passed along to Dad and Dean, though a cursed object didn't really seem to be a fitting description of what they were looking for, no matter how much his brother persisted. This thing, whatever it was, seemed to be on a spree of its own seeing as he had never heard of a tape or DVD being hexed—it was about as likely as finding an enchanted house plant.

Sighing, Sam shut Dad's journal and sat back in his seat, relaxing into the padded booth. Dean glanced up for a moment to check on his brother before returning to his work, irritation etching its way into his expression. Sam knew that Dean wasn't much for computers, but had agreed to begin the search on his own anyway while Sam perused their father's scribbled intel. Both of them were hoping to find something that would point them in any direction, but unfortunately Dad's journal had been a null lead, leaving Sam with nothing to do until Dean narrowed down the list of suspects.

Reaching into his knapsack for the _Urban Legends and Their Roots _book he had stolen from the library, Sam flipped it back to the page detailing the tape. In the center was a picture of a VHS cassette covered with blood under the title of "Mysterious Murderous Movie" written in a cheesy horror-flick font. He had read the small chapter at least twice since finding it, but figured another shot would not only help, but make it look like he was doing something productive—which would keep Dean from whining that he was the only one working.

It was a cloudy day when Rebecca Greeley, Marcia Gray, and Elise Whitman walked into the nation's first Blockbuster Video in Dallas, Texas, recent college freshman and looking to rent a copy of the new movie, _The Breakfast Club_. They were the first on their block to have a VHS player, which retailed for a cool $300—that would be around $600 today—and wanted to have a quiet night in with the troublemakers from Shermer High School.

While checking out, the clerk had insisted she had left the copy of the tape they were looking for in the back since it was a popular item, then went to retrieve it. When she returned, snapping the case closed for them, she rang them up and allowed them to go on their way.

By the time they got home, one of the girl's mothers bid the three goodnight as they headed to their room. When morning came, all three were found dead in the pastel-colored bedroom belonging to Marcia Gray.

From there, a sensation spread throughout the Dallas-Fort Worth area until eventually expanding throughout the state. Without the use of computers and e-mail, the story became twisted through hear-say statements, eventually evolving into the tale of a haunted video tape which killed whoever watched it.

According to the legend, the tape was taken from the scene of the crime after police in Dallas deemed the cassette dangerous, immediately locking it up in an evidence locker downtown. However, that's the closest semblance to reality as it gets. If asked, some might explain that the video had simply disappeared into thin air, whereas someone else might say that it was destroyed while being held at the Dallas police station. Unfortunately, there is no way to really tell.

Sitting down with a woman who worked at the store all those years ago, a different tale is laid out, one not heard before: "There was a rash of killings, starting with those college girls. It began in northern Dallas before heading west, farther from the store. After each murder, the tape would disappear on its own before reappearing where it was taken from. No one was connecting the dots at the time until after the killings stopped unexpectedly."

When asked about the video tape, Dallas PD insist that they recognized the pattern and did indeed take a video tape as evidence from the last homicide site. They also insist that the tape is still under lock and key. If this is true, then it might not stay there for long.

When offered the foreboding statement, an officer asked simply laughed. "I always hear the legends, that it often appears and reappears from crime scenes at will, but I don't believe it. I think the more solid explanation is that its owner slips in and out undetected to remove it from the site of its latest attack—and that's _only_ if you believe the idea of a tape killing people."

It seems, however, the cop is no such believer.

Whether this can be considered an urban legend or an actual tale of murder is up for grabs, but if you ask Deputy Anthony, he'll tell it to you straight: "Tapes can't kill people."

But what does he know?

Smirking to himself, Sam shut the book in his hands and looked up at Dean. His brother was sitting with his chin cradled in his propped-up palm with his eyes focused intently on the computer screen. Sam recognized the stance as one often seen on his own body: Dean was onto something, but trying to get all the facts before opening his mouth.

Taking a few more bites of salad while Dean's large green eyes scanned the monitor, Sam waited patiently for his brother to share whatever he had discovered. After a long moment, Dean finally looked up, a small smile on his face similar to the one he had been shooting at their waitress. "I'm a genius."

"And humble," Sam smirked.

"Shut up," Dean groaned.

Shaking his head and grinning, Sam leaned forward on the table and rested his arms against the edge. "What'd you find?"

"Well, out of this whole list, there have been only three people from the Dallas area who worked at both Blockbusters: a Debbie Hurwitz, Ramona Wheeler, and a Rachel Lauren. According to an online search, only one of them worked there in 1985. Any guesses on who that would be?"

"Ramona Wheeler," Sam frowned.

"Exactly, Sammy," Dean nodded, picking up a fry from his plate and pointing it at his brother before sticking it in his mouth. "Now I say we find this bitch and hunt her down."

Scoffing incredulously, Sam shook his head. "Aren't we kind of skipping a step here? We don't even know what she's planning on doing. Hell, the copy of the tape that's been going around might not be the only one. We should probably figure those things out before we go rushing in, guns blazing."

Dean looked crestfallen at the logic in his brother's voice, but shrugged it back and nodded. Sam understood the need to kick the crap out of something tangible, but jumping in half-assed wasn't the way to do it. Though they had been without a hunt for a couple of weeks, it was better to wait and learn than to wind up dead.

Taking the computer from in front of his brother, Sam began running an Internet search on the urban legend he had been reading about, looking for something they all had in common. While he looked, Dean's eyes browsed the inside of the diner, eventually falling on the brunette waitress, Kelly, as she carried a stack of plates to a group of people across the room. Frowning, his eyes narrowed as he stared at her. When she had turned around, straightening the necklace that had fallen askew in the motion, Dean's eyes widened.

"What?" Sam asked, noticing his brother's expression.

"Have we seen her before?" Dean asked, nodding toward Kelly.

"I don't think so," Sam lied, deciding not the share the fact that he had had the same thought earlier in the day. He had a feeling saying as much would lead his brother into a conversation with her, which he wanted to avoid. Keeping focused on the case was what they needed to be doing, not trying to figure out whether or not they had seen one of the girls working the diner somewhere else.

Turning back to his computer, Sam scanned some of the sites, soaking in the information. After a few minutes, he bit his lip and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, I think I know what's going on here."

"Yeah?" Dean asked absently, his eyes still on the brunette until she disappeared into the kitchen. "What?"

"I read some of the accounts about what happened back in eighty-five. There were a lot of attacks—weird ones, too. Guy gets electrocuted in the middle of a forest, a girl was run over by a monster truck in her own living room, and an old man was attacked by a shark in his bathtub. Eventually it stopped after a federal agent who had been called in took the tape downtown with him and boxed it up in an evidence locker," Sam explained. "All of it seemed to point back to one of the Blockbuster workers, Ramona Wheeler, who mysteriously disappeared after she heard word of the claims. According to this background check I ran, she moved to Maine and started working again after the accusations died down."

"Only the guilty people run," Dean commented, tapping his finger against the tabletop. "So, what is she? Animal, vegetable, or mineral? She doesn't sound very human."

"Well, in every story I come across, they all seem to have the same theory. Apparently out in Plano, people had been hearing about a witch who was moving from the suburbs to the city. Everyone in that town was glad to be free of her, but some of the people in Dallas became hyper-vigilant. When the attacks started, some of the city's residents left in order to avoid being killed, seeing the killings as random. In some of the later stories posted, they have a theory that a witch placed a curse on the tape so that everyone who watches it dies. Unfortunately, I still don't know how."

"Well, sharks in bathtubs and people getting run down in their living rooms seem to fall under the nightmare theory you mentioned earlier," Dean nodded. "They all are attacked in weird ways, and nightmares only make sense until you wake up. It's possible these people were dreaming about _Jaws _in the shower before it came back to bite them in the ass—literally."

"But witches and curses?" Sam frowned. "Sounds like we _are_ dealing with—"

"A cursed object?" Dean grinned. "Should've learned by now to never doubt me."

"Right," Sam said flatly, before shaking his head. "Point is, we can't drop a witch. She's human, for all intense and purposes."

"A witch that's _killing_ people," Dean noted. "Which, in my book, takes her out of the human category and into the gankable one. We've dropped humans before, Sam. This round won't be any different."

"That _was _different," Sam argued. "That woman was controlling a reaper and it turned on her. _We_ had nothing to do with that."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said, waving his brother off before standing up to deposit some cash on the table. "Listen, let's go confront the woman first before arguing over what to do with her. If she tries to get the jump on us, we'll take her down. If not, we can have a nice friendly chat by the fire."

Sighing in agreement, Sam shut his computer lid and stuffed it in his bag before following Dean out the door.


	10. Chapter 9

Available for download in PDF. I promise you that I don't have any viruses. I just **strongly recommend **it seeing as this was written in book format. Visit the Tumblr dedicated to this series, "11785", for details.

Or just read it here (:

NINE

Wheeler Residence  
>Bangor, Maine<br>Wednesday, August 2, 2006  
>7:35 PM<p>

**R**amona Wheeler really needed some time alone. After the incident in the break room involving Riley Storp, Ramona had no idea how much more she could take. She had seen her share of blood and guts, sure, but that was considered normal growing up in a family of big game hunters. She had seen the intestines of every animal known to the wild, including a mountain lion her father had shot during a camping trip near Rough Creek Lodge. She had also cut her hand on a few of her uncle's bowie knives and been sent to the emergency room around half a dozen times. But none of that compared to the gore she had walked in on earlier that day. Bits of Riley had been… everywhere.

Getting out of there as fast as she could after talking to those FBI agents, Ramona had swiped one of the movies off the counter and taken it home with her. She knew that was against company policy, but she didn't give a damn today. All she wanted was to push the sight out of her mind and focus on something that would put her in another place and time—hopefully one without fake blood and guts to add to the real ones she had seen today.

Glancing at the side of the box to secure the thought that she had grabbed something kosher, Ramona grinned sadly to herself before putting it down. She had been seventeen when _The Breakfast Club _had come out, so a blast to her high school past was probably what she needed at the moment. Anything else simply wouldn't do.

Turning around from the bar in her kitchen, she pivoted toward the popcorn popper sitting on top of the drainer, dispensing a cup of kernels into the machine before adding an equal amount of oil. Plugging it in, she listened to the thing simmer before heading down the hallway and toward her bedroom. In the fading light of twilight, her apartment felt strangely empty. Ever since the divorce with her husband, Kyle, and the judge ruling him for sole custody—it was only because he made more money, she had to remind herself—she had lived alone on Union Street in a small complex of four apartments. The three units surrounding her were empty, seeing as the building was out of the way from anything in town, but the owner assured her that the spaces would be filled soon. The idea of living alone near an abandoned stretch of road sometimes kept Ramona up at night.

Pushing open the door, she began to pull off the Blockbuster shirt she hadn't changed out of since closing the store early and made a beeline for the dresser. Pulling out a pair of pajamas she hadn't worn since last Christmas, she quickly tugged them on as the popper began to ring with stray kernels bouncing off the metal sides. Heading for the kitchen, she listened to the machine grow with intensity before stopping on its own, the process finally complete. Opening the lid, smoke billowed out of the popper and toward the ceiling as she grabbed blindly for the bowl she was planning to pour her snack into. Finding it with the tips of her fingers, she nearly dropped the purple plastic on the ground and swore at herself before dumping the popcorn into it.

_I am so off my game today_.

Taking a deep breath, she set the bowl on the cleared-off island behind her and reached into the fridge for a can of Coke. Right as she placed her hand on the handle, a flash of the scene from earlier took over her senses. Most of Riley's blood had pooled in three places: one under the television set, one beside the sink, and one smeared all over the façade of the old, white refrigerator the company hadn't replaced since 1990. In her mind's eye, she could see the scarlet handprints and the girl's clear fight for her life on the aged cooler, causing a shiver to run down Ramona's spine. Shaking her head to clear it, she blinked twice to see the image gone, with nothing on the door to her refrigerator except for a drawing her son Michael had done a year ago. At the time, she hadn't known whether or not the thing was supposed to be a giraffe, but after he explained that it was a dog, she found it cute enough to tack onto the thing with a magnet.

Biting her lip, Ramona retrieved a Coke Zero from the fridge and placed it on the counter. Leaning against it, she sighed deeply and drummed her fingers on the countertop. She missed her sons, Michael and Zack, who were six and eight now. She hadn't seen either of them since their last weekend together a month ago, and that was only because she had been working every one after that. The boys were growing up fast, playing T-ball and going camping with their dad whenever they could. She knew she was missing a big part of their lives as she tried to climb the Blockbuster corporate ladder in order to make more money than Kyle and regain custody of her kids, but she had a feeling it would all be worth it in the end—as long as some murderer on the highway didn't come along to end it for her.

The scariest part of being divorced, in her opinion, wasn't the idea of being without a man or the idea that she would never see her kids again—because she knew she would as soon as she stopped picking up extra shifts—but the fact that she felt unprotected. Living in an abandoned apartment complex always aroused the classic single female suspicions: rape, murder, home invasion. For a brief moment after moving in, she had considered getting a roommate, but realized that she wasn't twenty and in college anymore. She was thirty-eight, going on thirty-nine, and having someone live with her that she wasn't related to was a bit immature for her taste. Instead, she stuck it out and locked her doors and windows at night. She knew it was a false sense of security—if someone wanted in, they were going to find a way—but it helped her sleep through the night.

Unfortunately, every bump or creak caused her to jolt awake at three in the morning, anyway, especially after the nightmares she had been having for the past month.

It was always the same: a knock on the door and a man with a gun. However, the face of the person changed from dream to dream. One night it would be her ex-husband, then her former boss at the Big Gerson's she had waitressed at after leaving Brown University a semester before graduating, and sometimes even Lennie Brisco from _Law & Order_. No matter who it was that held the weapon, though, the end result was played out with her being shot in the heart and the very final fear of _never_ seeing her kids again, right before she woke up sweating and panting. She hated the nightmares and tried her best to keep them at bay, even going to the length of buying a second lock for the front door, but they just kept coming. Eventually she had talked to her doctor about the possibility of night terrors, but he waved it off as stress and prescribed her a heavy dose of Lunesta. Ultimately, she didn't take it in anticipation of sleeping through a break-in.

Then there was the attack on Riley in the break room and her walking in on it. Ramona had a feeling she was about to have a whole new wave of nightmares to fight back, ones much more vivid and real than before.

_I can't think about that now_, Ramona reminded herself. _I need to focus elsewhere_.

Picking up the bowl of popcorn and can of Coke, she rounded the island and headed for the loveseat posited before the TV in the middle of her small living room. The sofa was under-stuffed and bought secondhand, but it was all she could afford at the time. When Kyle had left her, denouncing her as a cheater, she had nothing to her name except for the few thousand dollars she had had in the bank. It was enough to buy a small couch and some bedroom furniture; the TV had come from her cousin in Portland. Thankfully, the apartment had been stocked with the essentials—an oven, a fridge, and a microwave—saving her both money and effort. She didn't want to hop from Salvation Army to Salvation Army trying to find something within her price range that still worked.

Reaching for the slim case on the counter, she pried it open and popped out the disc inside, noticing that it didn't have the normal label on it, as well as the tacky Blockbuster sticker. Shrugging it off and reminding herself to fix that when she returned to work on Monday, Ramona reached forward to hit the button on the built-in DVD player. As the tray popped out, she dropped the disc in and waited for it to retreat and load. Sitting back on the couch and balancing the bowl of popcorn in her lap, she watched as the FBI screen passed before brightening into a plain white light. As she shielded her eyes against it, the popcorn nearly tipped toward the floor. Catching it just in time, she placed it on the empty seat beside her before furrowing her brows at the frozen frame in front of her.

_Of course this happens_, Ramona groaned, getting up to mess with the buttons on the set. The television hadn't come with a remote, meaning that everything she did to it was manual and forcing her out of her comfortable spot. As she slapped the side of the TV and hit the stop button, nothing happened. It was just stark white, like the disc was stuck in place and refusing to move.

Suddenly, a sharp knock on the door caused Ramona to sit up rigidly. In her nightmares, it always started with a knock, abrupt enough to barely be heard if a sound was being made. Taking a deep breath, she scrubbed her face with her hands before tucking her hair behind her ears.

"Ms. Wheeler?" a deep voice asked from the other side.

Swallowing hard, Ramona legs felt like jell-o beneath her as she made her way to the door. With shaky hands, she reached for the knob when, all of a sudden, the door exploded inward. Screaming in surprise, she ducked beneath her arms and crouched low. This was exactly like her nightmare in every detail, the only difference was that she should be feeling the cold metal of a gun against her neck by now. Chancing a glance at her invaders, she saw shadowed silhouettes in the light of her bright television—two of them.

"Dude!" a second voice chided.

"I didn't expect her to be standing there!"

Peering up at the figures in the doorway, Ramona could make out the shapes of two men, one taller than the other. Deciding that she had enough adrenaline in her to reach for the light by the door, Ramona pushed herself up and flicked the switch. A dim yellow glow cascaded over them from the fluorescents that needed to be replaced, but the illumination was enough. Dressed now in normal clothes were the two FBI agents she had talked to at work, both standing with guns in their hands. Seeming to notice her frightened expression, the taller one, Agent Cates, stowed his weapon behind him and reached forward to steady her.

"What are you—" his partner went to protest, but instead froze, his eyes falling on the television screen behind them. Whipping around, Ramona saw that the DVD was now playing, but not starting out with the opening scene she had been hoping for. Instead of the Universal logo with Simple Minds in the background, something much more foreboding played out on screen.

A moment after turning around, the starkness turned from white to gray, with two figures standing in the center. In one long, drawn-out move, one of the shapes removed a gun from its belt and pointed it at the chest of the second figure, who clutched their breastbone protectively. In the blink of an eye, the two silhouettes changed from plain black to color, though too bright and slightly out of focus. As she looked closely at the screen, Ramona noticed something—_her_—standing opposite the shape of someone she didn't recognize. She looked between the two agents flanking her, quickly realizing that it was neither of them, before focusing back on the television set.

"Sam…" Agent Hammond warned, glancing at his partner over the top of her head.

"What?"

"Shut it off."

Hurdling over the couch, Agent Cates, who she supposed had the first name of Sam, dove for the power button and quickly pushed it. Unfortunately, doing so did nothing to turn off the set, which continued to play out something Ramona had only seen in her nightmares. Reaching for the plug, Sam pulled it from the wall, causing the cord to spark at him as it fell to the ground. Still, the movie continued to play.

"Don't look," Agent Hammond said, placing his calloused hand over Ramona's eyes.

Ducking away from the television set, Ramona could hear the sound of glass breaking followed by a final crash. Releasing her from his grip, Agent Hammond dropped his hands and allowed Ramona to see what his partner had done. On the floor lay her secondhand television, face first against the carpet. Gasping, she furrowed her brows, gazing up from the heap of electronic mess to Sam standing awkwardly over it.

"Well, I think we can mark this one off the suspect list," Agent Hammond said, rounding the couch and heading toward the television.

"Definitely."

"Yeah, except now what?"

Sam shrugged before turning to Ramona. Seeming to catch onto his stare, Agent Hammond did the same before nodding pointedly toward the sofa. Taking a seat obediently, Ramona crossed her legs and hugged her arms around her chest. "We need to know what happened."

"You… you saw what happened," Ramona said, swallowing hard.

"I mean, this, what we saw: what was it? Was it a nightmare? A past experience? What?" Agent Hammond asked, his voice becoming gruffer by the minute.

Taking a deep breath, Ramona nodded. "It was, uh, a nightmare. One I kept having."

Glaring fixedly at his partner, Agent Hammond bit his lip and said nothing else. Instead, he reached for the DVD box to read the side before passing it onto Sam. "Check this out. Teen angst and a free homicide. Seems to be this thing's M.O."

"No kidding," Sam nodded. "The original tape was disguised as this same movie."

"Okay, but we still don't know who it is that's handing out the show."

Ramona shook her head, unable to make sense of what the two were saying. After a long moment of listening to them discuss Dallas, for some-odd reason she couldn't place, she waited for them to turn to her once again. When they finally did, Ramona braced herself for the harsh questioning she had had to endure at the Blockbuster—not from them, but from Detective Cohen. He had asked incredibly probing questions that Ramona wasn't sure she would be able to handle a second round of, especially now.

"Ms. Wheeler," Sam said gently, crouching down in front of her, "when you lived in Texas, did you know anyone that followed you here? Anyone you might work with? Or maybe a neighbor?"

"No, not that I…" Ramona frowned. "Not that I know of. There are a couple of people from Dallas or Fort Worth that also work at the store, but they've lived in Maine longer than they lived there. Why?"

"In 1985, there were attacks," Sam sighed. "Three girls were killed, then—"

"I remember," Ramona interjected. "Oh, I remember." Pausing a minute, Ramona rubbed at the back of her neck and took in the expectant expressions of the FBI agents. Knowing that look as one mirrored by her own sons, Ramona nodded and continued. "I had started working there during my senior year of high school. Right when the deaths started, no one could put the pieces together, but some of the employees had theories. As the attacks escalated, the police department started interviewing everyone who worked there. Eventually, we all got hit up by the FBI, who asked even more disturbing questions than the detectives. I never found out who the person behind it was, though, because we moved before that. My dad had gotten a new job up here to work with his cousin on the docks and we were strapped for cash, so we went. At the time, I really wanted to know, because those girls that had died had gone to my school, but without the Internet back then, I was left hanging."

"And you can think of no one in town now who might have been a neighbor back then?" Agent Hammond asked, a frown deepening into his face.

"Dallas is a big city," Ramona sighed. "Ninth largest in the U.S."

Letting out a deep breath, Agent Hammond turned to Sam, who was eyeing the television set as if looking for a way to lift it. Seeming to notice his partner's expression, Hammond pivoted back toward Ramona. "We're going to need to take this as evidence."

Biting her lip, Ramona nodded. "Why not? You already broke it."

"My thoughts exactly," Agent Hammond said, bending down to help Sam lift the hulking mass and backing out the front door. Thankfully, Ramona lived on the bottom floor, meaning that the two didn't have to carry it far, but she still didn't understand why they had smashed it in the first place. Back in eighty-five, she had heard rumors about a tape that could kill people, but hadn't taken it seriously. Whoever was behind those attacks then was a person, same as it was now. The television, she doubted, was going to hurt her.

However, there was still the fact that she had seen herself on tape, being cornered by a silhouette, playing out exactly what she had seen in her dreams night after night. If the thing she had been watching had something to do with the rash of attacks across town and back in Dallas twenty-one years ago, then they could have her crappy TV. She wasn't going to need it anymore.

Just as Agents Hammond and Cates dropped her old set into the backseat of their car—which was not the standard-issue FBI Crown Victoria, she noted—she nodded to them and locked the door. Turning around, she bypassed the broken glass near where the television once sat and went straight to bed.

She was going to have to take some Lunesta… for the first time in her life.


	11. Chapter 10

Available for download in PDF. I promise you that I don't have any viruses. I just **strongly recommend **it seeing as this was written in book format. Visit the Tumblr dedicated to this series, "11785", for details.

Or just read it here (:

TEN

Brewer Motor Inn  
>Brewer, Maine<br>Wednesday, August 2, 2006  
>8:47 PM<p>

"**N**ice to know we're back at square-freakin'-one," Dean muttered as he jabbed a flat-head screwdriver into the slat between the base of the TV and the DVD player, trying to pry open the tray. He had been doing so for the past half an hour, trying to get it to spring loose in order to remove the disc, but it seemed as if the player—or maybe even the disc itself—didn't want to come free.

After leaving Ramona Wheeler's house, Dean had directed them back toward their motel, intent on getting the DVD out of its holder to check it out. Though Sam had made sure to mention that the only inspecting his brother would be doing would be the physical kind and not of the mental type, Dean had insisted that he wasn't going to watch it once it came loose. Still dubious of his brother's promise, Sam had made sure not to leave the room in case curiosity got the best of Dean, like it often did.

Under the guise of searching online for more clues, Sam sat stationed behind his computer near the door of their motel room, the screen bright against the dim light encompassing the space. For the past week that they had stayed at the Brewer Motor Inn, the lamps had slowly burnt out until leaving them with just one—the one on the nightstand between the beds. It provided enough light for Dean to see as he tried to lever open the slat of the DVD player, but not enough for Sam to do more than tinker around on his computer.

"We're not at square one," Sam said flatly as he kept his eyes on his laptop, pushing a few buttons here and there to keep up the ruse that he wasn't secretly watching Dean.

"Uh, yeah we are, Sammy," Dean argued, jamming the screwdriver into the slot with renewed gusto fueled by his irritation. "We don't know who the witch is, how to find her, or even," he paused a minute to try to levy out the jammed tray, "what she's doing this for."

"I might have an answer to that last one," Sam sighed, opening a webpage he had saved back at the diner for future reading. It had been a link attached to one of the online conspiracy theories about the attacks, one that he hadn't had much time for except for a quick scan. Even on his first impression, he had the idea that the writer was on the right path. "In some spells, the use of human bones amps up the power of the spell. Usually, the fresher the corpse, the more juice it's got."

"Great," Dean moaned, slapping his hands at his side and leaving the tool jutting handle-first out of the broken television. "Just what we need, a witch with something big up her sleeve. Let me guess: human bones equals dark magic?"

"Yep," Sam nodded.

Dean frowned before returning to his work, now using brute force to pry open the thing. Unfortunately, all it did was cause the screwdriver to scrape off a piece of plastic before coming free of its position. Groaning in annoyance, he tried again before speaking. "So what's this bitch's game plan? Use this DVD thing to kill a bunch of people, then collect the scraps afterwards?"

"I don't know," Sam answered honestly. "It's possible. The only thing that doesn't fit with that plan is the fact that bodies haven't been reported missing from the morgue. That, and those girls that had the run-in with the semi truck. They probably didn't have any salvageable parts left."

"Well, don't sugar-coat it, Sam," Dean grinned, giving up and taking a seat on the bed. After a long minute, he used his left hand to wrestle with the slat while he remained sitting, as if he couldn't let it go until he broke the disc free. "Still, no witch and no address. Kind of sounds like we've got nothing to go on."

Sam bit his lip. "Not nothing. There are still two more people that lived in the Dallas area before moving here. We can check them out, see if any of them fit the description."

"Fit the description?" Dean laughed. "Sam, have you ever _seen _a witch up close? They don't have that whole snaggle-tooth thing going on like in _Snow White_. You usually don't know who they are until the attack you."

"I know," Sam groaned, then waved off his brother, deciding to avoid an argument. They already had enough on their plate, a discussion about the appearance of witches wasn't one of them. Getting up from his chair, Sam crossed over to Dean and batted his brother's hand away from the screwdriver before taking hold of the handle. At Dean's raised eyebrow, Sam pushed the tool to the right until the DVD tray popped free.

"How did you—" Dean asked, gaping at Sam as he removed the disc from its holder.

"Easy," Sam shrugged.

Holding the shiny silver DVD up with one finger, Sam gave it a solid once-over. The surface was neither scratched nor written on on both sides, nor was it dented or dusty. It appeared to have come straight from a stack as if brand new. As he peered at it, he saw nothing that would indicate where it would have come from, not even an insignia or a corporate logo belonging to the manufacturer.

Seeming to notice the lack of distinguishing marks, Dean scoffed and got to his feet before crossing the room and picking up the legal pad beside Sam's computer. Squinting at it in the dim light, his brother cleared his throat before reading the names aloud. "Okay, so we have Rachel Lauren and Debbie Hurwitz, both live on opposite sides of town."

"Think we should split up?" Sam asked, placing the disc gently on his bed and crossing over to Dean to read the short list over his brother's shoulder. "You take Debbie and I'll take Rachel?"

"In your dreams," Dean smirked. "Who's ever heard of a hot Debbie?"

"That's not really the point of—"

Dean waved him off. "Yeah, yeah. Listen, I'll check out this Rachel chick's house while you go give Debbie your puppy-eyed third degree. If either of us spots anything weird, we get the hell out of there and come back later. We can't fight a witch solo. It's too dangerous."

"Yes, sir," Sam mocked, about-facing and heading toward where his suit was hanging in the makeshift closet near the bathroom. Through the mirror, Sam caught his brother's confused stare and smirked to himself. "What? Can't exactly pull off the FBI gag without looking the part."

"Of all the people in the world to be stuck with on a case, I had to get Sam Winchester: Drama Dork," Dean groaned, following his brother's motions and grabbing his own suit off the dresser before slipping off his plaid overshirt. "You know, me and Dad did just fine without your ridiculous costume ideas."

Grinning, Sam turned toward the bathroom and headed inside. "Yeah, whatever."

* * *

><p>As Dean dropped Sam off at Debbie Hurwitz's house, with a promise that he would be back directly after interviewing Rachel, Sam watched the taillights of the Impala disappear around the block before facing the small brown bungalow sitting in the middle of Ocean Road. Debbie didn't live near Brewer, or actually anywhere close, but instead on the outskirts of a town called Bayview not far from the coast. From where Sam stood on the pavement outside her nicely kept lawn, the smell of the salty sea air carried in the breeze, reminding him of the San Francisco trip he and Jessica had taken during Christmas break one year. He had gone up with her to meet her parents, but had enjoyed the city so much that they stayed a few days after to spend time down by the Warf. It was the first time he had gone somewhere without a demon to hunt or a person to save, and the change had, at the time, been refreshing. He was a civilian and nothing more. It was a life he thought he could live with and settle into, but that thought had slowly been pushed from his mind after rejoining Dean on the road and after Jessica had died, something he had a feeling was always there under a heap of denial.<p>

Clearing his throat, Sam rolled his shoulders back before heading up the walk to Debbie Hurwitz's front door. Inside, the lights were on with the sound of chatter in the background, the flickering frame of something visible through a gap in the curtains. Ringing the doorbell, he reached into his coat pocket to retrieve his badge, waiting for the door to swing open. After a few minutes of nothing, he repeated the motion, hoping that somehow a copy of the DVD they had in the motel room hadn't magically made its way to Debbie before Sam had arrived. Fortunately, his worries were soothed when the door popped open to reveal a teenage girl with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes, staring earnestly at Sam with a furrowed brow. "Can I help you?"

"Hi, are you Debbie?" Sam asked, flashing his badge.

The girl shook her head before leaning back in the threshold to scan the interior of the house. "Mom! Door!" Tuning back to Sam, she gave him a small smile before stepping out of the way. "Come in. I'll go find her."

Crossing through the doorway, Sam looked around the Hurwitz's residence. The walls were dark with black-and-white pictures fixed upon them in odd places, some even hanging down to reach the stained shag carpeting underfoot. A TV about as old as the one Sam had smashed back at Ramona Wheeler's place was balanced upon a corner bookshelf full of VHS tapes ranging from Disney movies to World War II documentaries. Beside it was a plastic fichus with white Christmas lights draped in the branches, giving off enough light to illuminate that corner of the room. A couch sat positioned toward both the television and the linoleum-and-Formica kitchen, which had its overhead fluorescents on. However, the kitchen seemed too small to hold a table and instead housed two side-by-side dinner trays facing toward him.

The house, it seemed, though well-kept outside, was depressing and down-trodden inside, giving Sam the notion that if a witch lived here, she wasn't a very good one. Most witches used their spells to gain things, money and influence being the two biggest, and seemed to avoid keeping their success under wraps. Though he wasn't ready to rule the woman out entirely, he was sure she wasn't working the power angle.

As if to solidify his interpretation of her, Debbie Hurwitz appeared at the mouth of the hallway, dressed in a disheveled pink nightgown and air-dried curly hair. If she didn't have the appearance of just getting out of bed at nearly nine at night, Sam thought she would have been pretty, but the untidiness of her looks showered over that. Biting her lip, Debbie seemed to understand Sam's thoughts and smoothed her hair with her hands self-consciously before offering one out for him to shake. Accepting the grasp, he flashed his badge for her and motioned for her to sit down.

"Ms. Hurwitz, I'm here to ask you about the murder that took place at the Blockbuster Video in Bangor earlier today," Sam began. "You're aware that a Ms. Riley Storp died in the break room there, correct?"

"I'm… _aware_," Debbie answered, nodding solemnly.

"What can you tell me about it?" Sam asked, removing a notepad from the lining of his jacket and flipping it open.

"What do you mean?"

"As I'm sure you've heard, the girl was murdered in cold blood with no one being seen going in or out of the room. I was wondering if maybe you had an idea or theory as to who might have done it, co-workers or otherwise."

"Riley was quiet and kept to herself," Debbie replied, chewing on her lip in thought as she answered. "She always stayed in the video room of the store, rewinding tapes. No one really knew her. She was just a kid. It's… tragic."

"But you can think of no one who would want to hurt her? No one at all?"

Debbie paused for a minute, reaching up to bite on her fingernail as she milled the idea over in her mind. After a long moment, she shook her head slowly. "No one that I can think of, sir. Why? What's going on?"

"We think this crime might be connected to one similar to it in Dallas back in 1985. We're not sure yet, but we're asking around and talking to the people who lived in the area at the time. Our records indicate that you lived there from eighty-three to 1990, and worked at the Blockbuster there from eighty-seven to eighty-nine," Sam explained, tapping his pen point absently against the notebook in his hand. "Is that correct?"

Nodding, Debbie sighed, her shoulder slumping. "That's correct."

"Do you remember what happened back then?"

"Not much. A handful of young people were killed, then the murders suddenly stopped and no one had any answers. I kind of forgot about it until now," Debbie replied, glancing at her daughter, who had been standing in the kitchen during the entirety of the interview. "Her father and I didn't think much of it. I think we were too high on coke to care, frankly. We moved out of Dallas in the nineties when the rent became too much and took up residence here. He left me a year after that."

Sam sighed, biting his lip and wracking his brain for questions. Debbie seemed just as innocent as Ramona, and just as uninformed about the attacks as the other woman. Capping his pen using his teeth and stuffing it and the notebook into his pocket, Sam held out his hand for a shake. "Thank you, Ms. Hurwitz. We'll be in touch."

Turning towards the door and exiting the house just as his phone rang, Sam reached for his Treo and looked at the display. Dean.

"Yeah?" Sam asked, glancing around to see if his brother was somewhere around the block and headed toward him. At the silence on the other end of the line, he furrowed his brows and sighed. "Dean?"

"I'm here," Dean said suddenly, causing the tension that had temporarily built in Sam's chest to deflate. "Sorry. I dropped the phone. Anyway, Rachel was a bust. Not only was she seventeen and had only moved here last year, but didn't even work today. She had no idea Riley Storp had died until I told her, and, man, she did _not_ take it well."

"So what do we do now?" Sam asked.

"I don't know. You're the college kid. You're supposed to figure that one out."

Frowning, Sam tapped his fingers against his thigh. "Yeah, yeah. Come pick me up."

"On my way, Bossy," Dean sighed. "Give me fifteen minutes."

Sighing, Sam took a seat on the curb a few feet from the Hurwitz residence and hung up the phone. In all honestly, he had no idea how they were going to track down the witch responsible for the killings, but he did know that they had the disc doing her dirty work. Unfortunately, Sam doubted that was the only copy floating around. If this woman was wise enough to convert formats, she was probably smart enough to figure out that a Hunter would come into town and try to wipe out her ammunition, meaning they had to find her before she figured out Sam and Dean Winchester were nearby.

Kicking his feet against the gray street, Sam pondered their options. If he was right in the flawed theory that the witch was using the cursed DVD to kill people in order to gather bones for a spell, then it was possible that the deaths of her victims summoned her to the area. However, in their search of the two crime scenes, Sam didn't remember seeing anyone similar at either of them. Ultimately, though, that could be attributed to the fact that he and his brother had arrived late on both of them. Still, there was no report of missing bones and the only way to truly know if that was the witch's motive was to check out the morgue.

Deciding to pitch the idea to his brother when he showed up, Sam wrapped his arms around his long legs against the chilly night and waited for Dean to appear.


	12. Chapter 11

Available for download in PDF. I promise you that I don't have any viruses. I just **strongly recommend **it seeing as this was written in book format. Visit the Tumblr dedicated to this series, "11785", for details.

Or just read it here (:

ELEVEN

Penobscot County Precinct  
>Bangor, Maine<br>Wednesday, August 2, 2006  
>9:43 PM<p>

**D**ean wasn't sure whether or not Sam had had his head screwed on straight when he proposed the idea that they walk into the police station and demand to see the remains of Riley Storp, but had agreed to do it anyway. Of all the nights to take risks, both now and back at the Blockbuster, this chilly August evening seemed to be the one.

However, they weren't being somewhat reckless for nothing. Though they were both aware that the sheriff in town wasn't completely buying their FBI pitch, Sam and Dean had bigger fish to fry. If this witch they were hunting down really was on the path to darker and dangerous things, then they needed to narrow down exactly what her endgame was before it was put into play. Should they be too late, it was possible the towns surrounding Bangor and Brewer would also be in the middle of a supernatural hot zone, and that was something both brothers wanted to avoid at all costs.

As Dean parked the car in the lot across from the precinct, hoping that he was far enough away that no one inside could get a good glance at the Impala, he paused a minute to straighten his suit and tie. According to Sam, the closer they looked to regular agents, the less suspicious they would seem, meaning that both of them had to look impeccable to fly under Sheriff Harris's watchful eye. After a long minute of pulling out the creases in his lapels and making sure he had nothing on him that would peg him as something other than a Fed, Dean finally popped open the door and got to his feet. Sam followed his lead, gazing over the roof of the car at the station as though sizing up the place.

"Think the boss is still hanging around?" Dean asked, peering at Sam out of the corner of his eye.

"Probably," Sam nodded, rounding the hood of the car to head to the front of the edifice beside his brother. "After the attack earlier today, everyone in there is probably working around the clock trying to figure it out. The cops don't seem to let the weird ones goes as easily. They'll be there until they convince themselves that something completely normal happened."

"People," Dean scoffed. "They see weird things, things we see almost every day, and choose to just ignore it or explain it away. That's gotta be healthy."

Smirking, Sam shook his head toward the ground but said nothing else as they reached the glass doors leading to the interior of the police station. Inside, overhead lights cast a muted yellow throughout the spacious room, which contained nothing more than a receptionist desk and doors and hallways leading to other parts of the building. Through a corridor off to the right came the sounds of phones ringing and people speaking impatiently at one another, while the echo of doors slamming carried from the left. In the middle of the two sat an African-American receptionist around the age of forty, her hair tied tightly in a bun and red-framed glasses perched on her nose. At the entrance of Sam and Dean, she looked up, giving them a tired grin before standing.

"Can I help you with something?"

"We're hoping so," Dean said, stepping forward and flashing his badge.

At the appearance of it, the woman frowned. "_You're _the FBI guys?"

"Agents Hammond and Cates," Dean nodded, trying his best to keep his unwavering stare fixed on the receptionist as she eyed them. Seeming to be just as skeptical as the sheriff before her, she crossed her arms over her chest and shifted her weight. Pretending not to notice, Dean continued, shoving his badge back inside the lining of his coat. "We're here to take a look at the remains of Riley Storp."

"Alright," the woman nodded, picking up a photo ID off the desk and clipping it onto the front of her pantsuit. Glancing at it, Dean could see that her name was Rachelle Williams and worked in the homicide unit. Frowning, Dean glanced at Sam before turning back to Rachelle, who seemed to notice Dean's confused look. "My desk is being used by another set of you guys, but they're working a different case."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Dean replied.

"Yeah, me too," Rachelle grinned. "Not the first time that I gave it up for one of you Feds, but this guy was a little rough. If he was nice like you, I wouldn't have a problem." Broadening her smile, Rachelle's eyes locked into Dean's for a moment before rounding the receptionist desk and grabbing a set of keys. "Ordinarily, I'd ask for clearance from the pathologist, but this place has been a zoo since the girl was killed and he went home hours ago. I have to tell you, though, this is the weirdest case I've worked on yet."

"You're investigating this?" Sam piped up, causing Rachelle to stop abruptly and look at Sam as if she hadn't noticed he was there.

"I am," she nodded, carrying on toward the autopsy room. "When it showed up on my desk, I didn't know what to make of it. No murder weapon, no witnesses, no rhyme or reason… None of it makes sense. Now that I know you're on the clock with this, maybe we can compare notes—though I don't know what help looking at the girl's corpse will be."

Dean bit back a grin at the obvious flirtation vibes Rachelle was giving off. Though the woman was gorgeous and obviously smart, something about hitting on someone almost fifteen years his senior caused him to clam up. His limit for any woman was thirty, and Dean could tell by the way she dressed and carried herself that Rachelle was way over that. Deciding to follow Sam's plan for most hunts and keep it professional, Dean cleared his throat just as they arrived at the door to the morgue. "We're looking for gaps in the consistency of the autopsy report, maybe see if we can find something your coroner missed."

"Fat chance," Rachelle frowned, seeming to pick up on Dean's freeze-out seeing as she was now talking to Sam. "Our coroner is the best in the area, brought in from Portland last year. He goes through everything with a fine-tooth comb and leaves no kidney stone unturned. If you find something he missed, I'd be surprised."

"Still, it's worth a shot," Dean butted back in as Rachelle unlocked the door and crossed the threshold without any sort of hint that she had heard him.

Heading for a refrigerator unit among the wall of squares four high and three across, she stopped in front of one near the middle and pulled on the handle, checking the name written on the masking tape before opening it completely. Exchanging a nod with Sam, who shot him a pointed glare as a clue that Dean should keep his mouth shut, the brothers made a beeline for Rachelle and stopped beside her. The room became colder the further in they headed, causing Dean to shiver a little in his jacket. Crossing his arms as cover up, he waited, probably appearing impatient, for Rachelle to pull out the gurney holding Riley's remains and stood behind his brother to give him the floor.

Unfortunately, Sam never got his chance to shine. Reaching inside, Rachelle grasped for the metal slat before sliding it out with ease. By the time the thing was under the bright fluorescents of the morgue, all that gleamed up at them was the stainless steel of the contraption with a few pools of coagulated blood in various places. Cursing under his breath, Dean held back a groan and turned to Sam, whose eyes seemed to darken at the discovery.

"I don't understand," Rachelle said, causing the brothers to shift their focus onto her. "She was right here an hour ago."

Dean nodded curtly, hoping that the motion would be enough to show her that he was equally as upset. Glancing at Sam before exchanging glares, Sam turned to Rachelle and took a deep breath. "What about the remains from the accident on Tuesday night? Was anything left behind?"

At this, Rachelle frowned. "No. There wasn't any need for an autopsy then. We ran a blood alcohol test to make sure the driver wasn't intoxicated, but the remains were interred as quickly as possible. A ceremony was held this morning for the families."

Nodding again, this time grimly, Dean let out a deep breath before shooting his brother a look. At Sam's troubled gaze in return, which told him they were through, Dean held out his hand to shake with Rachelle. Returning the grasp limply, the woman's eyes continued to search the room, as if the remains of Riley Storp would be sitting out in the open and she had just missed them. Grimacing at the sight, Dean turned and headed for the door, pausing a moment to let Sam catch up.

"Looks like your spell theory is back on the board," Dean frowned.

"Yeah, great," Sam scoffed, pushing open the front entrance and striding out, leaving a cloud of irritation in his wake. "Which means we're screwed if we don't find this witch fast. Human bones only narrow it down to a few curses and hexes, and none of them are good."

"Why don't we summon her?" Dean asked as they reached the Impala, leaning against the hood and sighing at his brother's bewildered expression. "You said the death of her victim would probably bring her to the scene of the crime, right? Why not point her in our direction and bag her?"

"Because not only is that extremely _risky_," Sam sighed disbelievingly, "but it can also kill us."

"So what? Like we haven't done anything potentially life-threatening before?"

Staring at his brother over the roof of his car, Dean watched as Sam's eyes searched the darkness behind him, as if looking for a way out of the conversation or another solution. After a long minute, Dean frowned sadly and drummed his fingers anxiously against the cool metal of the Impala. "I know about the nightmares, Sam. I know they started up again."

Sam's eyes flicked to Dean with a surprised expression behind them, telling Dean all he needed to know. He knew he should have been worried or compassionate toward his brother's situation, but instead felt a flare of anger rise inside of him. Attempting to quell it, Dean tightened his grip on his car keys until they were digging into his palm. "Sam…"

"Dean, I—"

"Sam, when something like this happens, we talk about it," Dean began, unable to stow the irritation that was building. "If you're having nightmares, you tell me. You can't keep something like this to yourself, you understand me?"

At Dean's words, Sam's expression changed from one of soft apology to a hard gaze eerily similar to one Dean had often seen on their father's face. If he hadn't been angry himself, Dean might have buckled under the identical glare or loosened his grip on his keys. Instead he waited for the volcano that was Sam's temper to explode, hoping that neither of them became loud enough to alert the police station across the street.

"And what exactly am I supposed to tell you, Dean? How _exactly_ are you supposed to fix it?" Sam yelled, agitation flaming in his blackened stare. "Yeah, I've been having nightmares, but so what? It's just something I have to live with. There's nothing about it that you can do! Telling you isn't going to do anything but make matters worse. You've got enough on your plate without me adding to it."

"You can cut the selfless crap, Sam. I know that's not the real reason you neglected to tell me any of this," Dean growled, tightening his jaw.

Over the hood, Sam's expression softened again, this time with his eyes yielding under Dean's fuming glower. Slackening his face, Dean released his keys to peer at his hand in the dim light of the streetlamp. Indentations were deep in his palm, some of them looking as if they were ready to break skin. Sighing, Dean cleared his throat and pulled at his earlobe. Silence swelled around them as the two stood in thought, both staring in opposite directions.

Dean worried about Sam. He had since the day Dad had deposited his little brother in his arms the night of their mother's fire. From time to time, their father's order still echoed in Dean's head, blurring his vision for a moment as he remembered the flames and the smoke: "_Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Now, Dean, GO!_" It had become Dean's mantra since—take care of Sammy, do everything you can. The moment Sam had rejoined him on the road, Dean had intended to keep that promise to himself, that he would stop at nothing to protect his younger brother. Unfortunately, two obstacles had come along the way that Dean was powerless against: Sam's sudden psychic abilities and the fact that his brother had nightmares more often than he had ever seen.

Growing up, both brothers had experienced their share of bad dreams, especially after the discovery of what Dad _really _did for a living. Dean had known much longer than Sam, and had made a job of if fighting back the terrors creeping through his subconscious at night, but even those didn't compare to how he imagined Sam's nightmares to be. He had walked in at the tail end of Sam's real-life horror movie, just when the flames had begun eating his brother's apartment alive, and hadn't felt the attachment to Jessica that Sam had. His first, and only, priority at the time was to drag his brother from the fire just like he had twenty-two years ago, nothing else. Sam had seen everything, from start to finish, and had felt a heartache Dean couldn't imagine. He had understood why Sam was angry months after Jessica's death, and had even tried to help sooth it by letting his brother drive the Impala, but still feared for him. The nightmares had been something Dean couldn't stop, something neither of them seemed to be able to prevent, and that kind of helplessness only agitated Dean, causing him to take it out on the wrong person—Sam.

Taking a deep breath, Dean cleared his throat and rubbed at the back of his neck while staring at the ground, hoping to buy a few minutes to think of something to say. However, it seemed the crushing weight of the silence didn't want to allow him time. "Sammy, look, I, uh—"

"Save it," Sam said abruptly. "We have a bigger problem."

Gazing up, Dean's brow furrowed in confusion as he glanced at his younger brother. Over the hood of the car, Sam's eyes were focused on something across the street: two figures—a male and a female—climbing into the cab of a large black truck with a folder full of papers in the girl's hand. Something about the male's shape seemed familiar, something about the way he walked, causing Dean's eyebrows to furrow in concern. As the two shut the door to the truck and started the engine, Dean's stare fell to the license plate. Suddenly, his heart stopped in his chest. "That's not—"

Sam's jaw tightened, only a single word coming through his clenched teeth:

"Dad."


	13. Chapter 12

Available for download in PDF. I promise you that I don't have any viruses. I just **strongly recommend **it seeing as this was written in book format. Visit the Tumblr dedicated to this series, "11785", for details.

Or just read it here (:

TWELVE

Brewer Motor Inn  
>Brewer, Maine<br>Wednesday, August 2, 2006  
>10:37 PM<p>

**S**am threw his suit jacket on the bed angrily, irritated at the fact that Dean had refused to follow Dad back to wherever he and his, apparently, new partner were staying. No matter how much Sam complained, pointed out the importance of trailing their father, or even tried to deploy what his brother called "the puppy eyes", nothing worked. Instead, Dean had ignored him completely and directed them back to the motel, telling his brother—and himself as well—that they had something more important to focus on and that they could find out what Dad was up to after they were finished with their hunt.

Snorting in response, Sam had stomped out of the Impala, not caring that his maturity level was now down to that of a small child's, and began changing. Dean was still outside somewhere, probably pretending to organize the weapon arsenal in the trunk to give his brother room to breathe and calm down, and would most likely not be in for awhile. Taking this as a good opportunity, Sam grabbed his normal clothes off the dresser and began to shed his Fed suit, pulling angrily at the tie before lifting it over his head. The space Dean was giving him gave him room to think, which was exactly what he wanted to do. He needed to mull this over before finding Dad and unleashing his pent-up fury. For months, he and his brother had been hunting behind their father's back, a quiet guilt washing over them whenever they hit a plateau in their investigation. But it seemed now as if they weren't the only ones exhibiting liar's behavior. Dad was hunting, after he had told his sons to lay low, and not only doing so with someone else, but someone neither brother had met.

Sure, Dad had had partners on previous missions, guys that Sam and Dean had grown up knowing and been passed between whenever their father decided he was going to take something out solo—which was more often than not. Dad didn't trust new people, and this girl was definitely new. Though Sam didn't have that good of a look from across the street, not to mention the fact that Dean had a much keener eyesight, he knew for a fact that he had never met this woman before. In all of Dad's lugging around and travels across the continental U.S, Sam had never once met a female that Dad had worked with—which had, honestly, given Sam the sense that there weren't any woman Hunters. Even now, traveling with Dean hadn't disproved that fact. In fact, it had only amplified his idea that there were only a handful of Hunters in the country. Still, he had yet to meet one of the female persuasion.

If he was honest with himself, he wasn't bothered by the idea that Dad was hunting with a girl—he was sure she could do the job as well as he or Dean—but the fact that she was clearly unknown to him and his brother. Dad almost never took on new partners, especially now that he claimed to be under demon surveillance, so seeing him work with someone who wasn't Sam or Dean was hurtful. Their father had left them high and dry almost a year ago and had only contacted them a handful of times. To see him partnering with someone besides his sons seemed to cut Sam deeper than he had anticipated. He had left Stanford to find Dad, under the impression that he was in trouble, and had left Jessica unprotected. If he had known that his father was trolling the country and working cases with someone else, Sam wouldn't have bothered. In fact, he probably would have told his brother to let them return to the paths they were on.

Pulling a t-shirt on over his head, Sam sighed deeply before lowering himself onto the corner of his unmade bed, running his hands through his hair. He was doing it again, dwelling on the past, the thing that had caused his nightmares to come back. As much as he had always known that, under a pile of denial, Sam was meant to be a Hunter, he couldn't help but wonder "what if" from time to time. What if he had known Dad was working with someone else? What if he hadn't left with Dean that night in October? What if he had stayed? Would Jessica still be alive?

Though he knew the answers to all of those, that he would have gone just as readily with Dean if he was aware of Dad's new partner, Sam had to bite back the swell of rage that came with the questions. There was still a part of his heart that longed for Stanford, though quelled now by the absolute fact that he was meant to live this life instead of the one he wanted, he couldn't suppress it more than it already was. It was a silent wonder of what he would have become, something he would never know, and it would bug him endlessly until the thought vanished from his mind. Unfortunately, he knew that day wouldn't be coming anytime soon and that he would have to live with it until it did.

Pushing the thought from his mind, Sam let out another deep breath before getting to his feet just as Dean made his way into the room, a cautious look on his face. At Sam's small smile, his brother relaxed his shoulders before removing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt, heading toward the bathroom portion of the room.

"So I was thinking—"

"That always ends well," Sam joked, hoping to alleviate the tension he had built.

"Ha-freaking-ha," Dean said dryly. "Anyway, so I was thinking about this whole witch and video tape deal while I was outside. You said you think watching the tape might be the thing that's summoning her, right? Then she snatches the bodies?"

"Yeah," Sam frowned.

"I don't think that's it. I think I might be wrong about this one. If the detective had examined Riley Storp's corpse, then it was gone an hour later, I think this woman—or witch or whatever she is—is lying in wait for the perfect time to snatch it. Maybe watching the video isn't such a grand idea."

"Then what do you suggest?" Sam sighed, picking up the disc from where it sat on Dean's bed, half-hidden by the covers. "We don't really have any lead on who it is."

"Wait it out?" Dean frowned. "I know it's a crappy idea, but maybe this thing will blow over. You keep saying that there's more than one copy of that thing floating around," Dean paused to nod toward the DVD in his brother's hand, "but we don't have any proof of it. Everyone that's died so far has been hit by that one right there. Maybe you're just assuming this witch to be smarter than she is."

"You're underestimating a witch?" Sam scoffed. "I don't believe it."

"Well, believe it, Sammy."

Biting his lip, Sam sighed and eyed the DVD again as Dean turned his back on him to change the rest of his clothes. For a second, he shot a glance at his brother, then at his laptop, wondering if his computer had the ability to play the disc, before dropping it back on the bed. He knew Dean was now trying to find a way around having to endure whatever the film had in store for them and instead looking for a loophole, but Sam had a feeling that wasn't going to happen. The only link he had seen between the witch and her body snatching was the bright silver disc staring up at him from the off-white sheets below. Of all the conclusions he had drawn and all the suppositions he could come up with in the time it took to get back from the sheriff's office, the only thing he could surmise would bring the witch forward was the cursed DVD. And he had a feeling, sooner or later, Dean would come to the same deduction once again.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see his brother biting his lip in thought, his brow furrowed deep. Deciding to push Dean along, Sam took a seat on the bed and rubbed at the back of his neck in thought. "I don't think it's the fact that someone dies that brings the witch to the scene, I think it's the way it happens, the extraordinary circumstance. It's possible that this woman is using this video as a kind of torture before the eventual killing—you know, letting someone live out their own nightmare. Remember the _Timor Animi _in Louisville and how it fed on people's fear? It's possible that someone dying in a heightened sense of panic can amplify the power of the remains, like when a murdered spirit sticks around after their death. That's why burning the bones puts them to rest."

"Okay," Dean nodded. "I can get behind that. But what I don't get is why she's using this movie in the first place. People are killed every day, why's she using this thing as a tool or whatever? Why not just use her magic?"

"Spells kill quickly," Sam answered slowly. "This draws it out, prolongs it."

"Great," Dean frowned. "And if we watch this thing, we'll be subjecting ourselves to it. Sounds like an awesome plan."

"It's our only option," Sam reminded his brother.

Scrubbing his face with his hands, Dean let out a deep breath before letting his eyes settle on Sam. "Alright. I'm going to regret this, but alright."

* * *

><p>After a half an hour of removing their belongings and weapons out of the room to prepare for the eventual damage, Dean had decided that they were making a bad decision. He knew what Sam's nightmares contained and exactly what was going to happen. He knew that his brother was going to keep his terrors to himself until it was too late, and that they were soon going to find themselves in the middle of <em>Towering Inferno. <em>He also knew that when the fire started, they were going to have to find a way out of the room.

Looking away from the opened laptop—which was now sitting where the room's TV once sat—Dean's eyes scanned the walls and windows for an exit. He had no doubt in his mind that those two would be the first to go, just like they had when Jessica had died, meaning that they had to keep the door open as an escape. Sam, fortunately, had already taken care of that, propping it open with the one and only chair from the bistro set near Dean's bed. Now all that there was left to do was to watch the damn video and hope for the best—something that seemed to go hand-in-hand with their line of work. Hopefully they wouldn't find themselves fried to death after reliving the most traumatic moment of Sam's life since that would not only be horrifying for his brother, but a complete letdown. The two hadn't come this far, batted that many forces of darkness, to be taken down by a self-inflicted blaze. It would be embarrassing.

Checking to make sure the chair was secure and wouldn't be going anywhere should the door slam on its own, Dean crossed the room and pushed and pulled on its back. It was wedged under the handle of the propped-open entryway, two legs on the ground with two in the air, dividing the jamb between them. When it didn't budge, he turned to nod at Sam, who then carried the DVD over to his computer and placed it in its popped-out tray, not pushing it in all the way.

Dean knew they were acting slowly and almost ceremonially, but he didn't care. They had to be delicate with what they were doing. Both of them would be under certain death if they didn't watch their asses, and that kind of sloppy hunting was not acceptable. One wrong move and they were dead meat. Charred dead meat, but still dead meat.

Returning to his bed, Dean took a seat on the corner of the mattress and held his breath as Sam pushed in the disc. The computer reacted almost immediately, clicking and beeping as it read the DVD before the dark, blank screen turned completely white. A moment later, two blurry, silhouetted shapes appeared in the frame before solidifying and blinking into color, though almost too bright. In a second, Dean recognized Sam and his old apartment, his brother lying on the bed serenely with a grin on his face, his eyes closed. For a second, Dean looked away from the screen to glance at Sam to notice a pained look etching itself into his expression. His brother had told him that he had seen Jessica's death for days before she died, and Dean couldn't help but wonder if this is exactly what he saw.

Turning back to the computer, Dean saw his brother shouting his girlfriend's name silently before a fire exploded. The room was engulfed a minute later, and only a moment after that did Dean appear. This was the part he remembered, walking in on Sam struggling to get to his feet as the shock made him numb, just before another explosion. As the memory played out on screen, Dean took a deep breath and waited for the film version of him to carry Sam out the front door, just like he had twenty-two years ago. Unfortunately, it didn't go as planned. Directly in front of them, all ways out of the apartment were sealed off before igniting with fire. The smoke in the room became a dense cloud, sucking all the air out of the space and causing both of them to fall to the floor. Before the fire could engulf them, however, the screen returned to white just before the disc popped out of Sam's laptop tray.

A tremor ran down Dean's spine as he eyed the monitor of the computer, now suddenly able to understand his brother's constant nightmare and recognizing it as one he had had many times himself. Dean had dreamt endlessly after Jessica's death that he hadn't been able to save Sam, that he had been too late and the fire had already consumed the entirety of the apartment, and that he would have to live without his little brother. Sam's nightmare seemed to be one similar to that, but instead of dying alone, accidentally dragged Dean down with him. It was the story of Sam's life. He didn't mind what happened to him as long as no one else was hurt _because_ of him.

Suddenly, Dean regretted his comment about Sam being selfish, because his brother was anything but, but never got the chance to say it. As he turned to Sam to apologize, something else took over his focus. Behind the computer erupted a billow of black smoke, followed by the tickle of flames licking the wall. Soot climbed the wallpaper, preceding the fire that soon grew behind it.

Grabbing Sam, Dean bolted for the door, but stopped in his tracks a few feet from it as the chair wedging it open was sucked out into the night and suddenly slammed shut. A split second later, the fire to their left exploded, eating the wall entirely and spreading onto the ones surrounding it. After a quick moment, the power in the room went out, though it was hard to tell against the harshness of the flames. Light bulbs burst and mirrors cracked over the cackle of the blaze, barely punctuating the monotony of the sound. Swallowing hard, Dean glanced back at the door, trying to keep his eyes in one place despite the fact that they seemed to want to roam, and saw that it was now a wall of fire extending to the window.

"Damn it!" Dean cursed under his breath, suppressing a cough.

The smoke in the room was thick, clogging Dean's throat. A couple of winded hacks from Sam told Dean that his brother was experiencing the same sensation.

"We have to get under cover!" Sam shouted when he was finished.

"We have to get out of here!" Dean replied.

"How?"

Looking around for something to use to break the window, Dean's eyes flashed over the flames in search of something useful. Instead he saw nothing but the inferno licking the walls and reaching the open-beam ceiling. If they didn't react fast, some of those thick wooden planks would be hitting the ground—or them.

As if to urge him forward, the fire licked at one side of the beam above them before it fell loose. Jumping into action, Sam rushed toward his bed and grabbed a blanket off of the edge before scanning the room. Dean held his breath in anticipation, not exactly sure what his brother was planning to do but hoping he would do it fast. Crossing the room, Sam reached for a garbage can that was melting in the heat and retrieved the soda cup Dean had had three days ago. Ripping off the lid, Sam upended the giant container and dumped it onto the blanket just as the beam above cracked free. Rushing over to him, Sam threw the quilt over him and Dean and ducked low. The sound of roaring flames passed by them before hitting something soft.

Taking a moment, the two exchanged wide-eyed stares before throwing back the damp, moldy blanket. The beam had fallen across the beds, which were now reduced to nothing but flaming foam and metal springs, and quickly igniting the worn headboards. Coughing, Dean got to his feet and searched for something heavy, something he could toss at the window and break it open. Falling on the bolted-in table sitting dangerously close to the fire, Dean ran over to it and began to pull. The wood was hot and becoming limp under the intense temperature, but he tugged anyway, hoping to uproot it. Seeming to understand, Sam began to help just as the wall behind his computer exploded again.

With the sense of urgency in the air, Sam and Dean tried one more time before the bolts nailing the table to the ground came loose. Using their momentum, the brothers tossed the heavy piece of furniture at the window, and hoped for the best. As soon as the wood hit the glass, the two collided in a satisfying crash and fire burst out into the cold Maine night. Sirens were in the distance, covered by the growl of flames, but Dean couldn't focus on that now. All they had to do was climb out the window and they were safe.

Placing his foot on the frame, Dean could feel the fire below him and jumped out, landing unceremoniously on the pavement. A moment later, Sam was beside him, slapping out a small blaze near the hem of his jeans. Blood was streaming down the side of his face at the angle in which he had hit the pavement, but Dean didn't care. Sammy was safe, scratched and scorched, but safe. It was an elatedness he had felt back in Palo Alto, one he hadn't thought he would ever feel again.

As the sirens approached, Dean looked around for their source and tried to come up with a believable explanation. Instead he saw something odd. In the crowd surrounding their room was a girl he had seen somewhere before. Staring at her longer, the flash of an old cheerleading photo appeared in his mind, causing his jaw to set. He knew who the witch was; they just hadn't suspected her at all.

"Sam, we gotta go."

"What? Why?"

Noticing Dean's eyes on her, Emily Munroe turned and ran.


	14. Chapter 13

Available for download in PDF. I promise you that I don't have any viruses. I just **strongly recommend **it seeing as this was written in book format. Visit the Tumblr dedicated to this series, "11785", for details.

Or just read it here (:

THIRTEEN

Bayview Docks  
>Bayview, Maine<br>Wednesday, August 2, 2006  
>11:49 PM<p>

"**I** should have known!" Dean cursed himself aloud as he chased behind Emily Munroe's white Saab Aero as it sped down River Road toward Bayview. In the passenger seat, Sam's eyes darted between his brother and the street passing quickly underneath the Impala as Dean pushed its limits, racing after Emily at eighty miles per hour down the two-lane highway. The girl in front of them weaved in and out of the light traffic, making it difficult to keep up, but his brother's reckless driving habits seemed to keep the pursuit at ease.

Unfortunately, Emily knew the roads in Maine better than both Sam and Dean, who had done a bit of exploring thus far during their week-long stay in town, and could turn off and disappear at any point. It seemed as though that wasn't her goal, however, as she stayed on a straight-and-narrow path toward a destination Sam couldn't figure out. He knew the only thing ahead of them was a body of water leading out into the Atlantic Ocean, nothing more. Unless she was hoping to board ship and sail off, then Sam couldn't see what the point of heading this far east was.

Deciding that he needed a distraction from Dean's _Fast and Furious _impression, Sam drug his phone out of his pocket and connected to the Internet in an attempt to find an approximate destination. As the GPS map pinpointed their location, he saw that there were various shipping yards the farther they headed in their direction, as well as a few seaside restaurants and maritime museums. Of all of those options, he couldn't figure out which one was more likely than the other.

Placing his phone in the center console between his and his brother's knees just as Dean screeched to a halt behind a particularly slow driver, Sam bit back a gasp of surprise as he pushed his hands against the dashboard. Taking a minute to regain his composure, Dean let out a deep breath before resuming the chase. By the time he swerved around the green Honda that had come between them and Emily, Sam could see that the girl was already far ahead of them and pulling into a sailboat docking station to the right. Gunning it, Dean followed before fishtailing into the parking lot and nearly colliding with a few trucks sitting near the entrance.

"Dude!" Sam yelped, banging his fist on the dashboard after being thrust forward.

Dean didn't apologize, instead choosing to stop the car abruptly beside Emily's now-abandoned Saab and climb out in a hurry. Rounding the back, he popped open the trunk and grabbed two pistols—Sam's favored 9mm and his brother's trusty Colt .45—before handing one off to Sam and slamming the lid. As he shoved the gun into the back waistband of his jeans, Dean took off like a rocket toward the ship Emily was heading below decks on, with Sam trailing behind.

He had a feeling this wasn't going to end well. On the lower level of a ship, he and Dean could become trapped with a witch who could do whatever she wanted to them, depending on how powerful she was. Judging by the yacht and the car, Emily Munroe was definitely high up in the rankings. Only a practiced witch could accumulate such wealth.

Jumping on deck beside his brother, the two of them paused for a moment to give the small ship a once-over. The surface of it was relatively flat with a cabin to their left walled with open windows. Inside was a bed with a small kitchen and bar, though relatively empty by housing standards. To the right of the cabin was a staircase leading down, the steps Emily had taken, with a white metal handrail along the side. On their right-hand side was a deck complete with a bolted-down table and chairs, a colorful umbrella cemented in the center of the table, though muted in the dense moonlight, encased in cruise ship-like railing with large gaps at foot and knee level wide enough to a person to slip through. Beyond that was a sparkling ocean punctuated with other boats around a U-shaped docking station, some with lights on in their cabins.

However, it appeared as though there was only one way up and down, leaving them with no way to corner Emily whenever they encountered her below. Thumbing off the safety of his gun and turning to Sam, Dean nodded before making his way slowly to the staircase and glancing down. It was completely dark after a few steps, causing a sense of anxiety to temporarily wash over Sam. If they couldn't see, they couldn't fight. Fortunately, it seemed as if Dean had anticipated this, pulling a small flashlight from his pocket and clicking it on. Holding it beneath his .45, he exhaled slowly before taking the first step down.

As they descended the steps, Sam half-expected to be attacked right off by a hand reaching through the stairs or a blast resonating through the space. Ultimately, nothing happened, even after reaching the bottom. Peering through the relative darkness, Sam and Dean glanced around to find nothing but cardboard boxes below, stacked up to the ceiling of the yacht's basement.

"Well this is cozy," Dean commented as the two shouldered their way through the labyrinth of containers. Down the way, a door appeared in the light of their flashlight, shining back at them in a stark white that reminded Sam of the cursed video they had watched. Pulling on the handle, Dean made a motion to throw it open, but instead found that it didn't budge. "Fantastic."

Pushing past his brother, Sam gave it a try as if his attempt would garner them a different result before sighing and furrowing his brow. "We have to get in there."

"Obviously," Dean muttered, clearly irritated.

Suddenly, an explosion from the other side of the door caused the brothers to flinch. Straightening up, Sam's eyes searched for a keyhole but found nothing but blank space beneath the knob. Turning, he looked at Dean, who's gaze was wondering the darkened room around them as though he could see through it in the dim light. A moment later and his brother was passing between the narrow gap toward something Sam couldn't see, his hand outstretched to grab something in the blackness.

Frowning, he waited for Dean to about-face and reveal what he was holding. In the pointed-down beam of the flashlight, Sam could make out the dull shape of a crowbar being cradled in his brother's hands, a look on Dean's face that told Sam his brother had a very unusual idea. Turning left from Sam, Dean headed back toward the stairs, the room becoming darker the farther away he became. With no choice but to follow, Sam did before catching up and ramming into Dean. His brother stood at the foot of the steps, his eyes focused at the starlight above.

"What is it?" Sam frowned.

"Nothing," Dean replied, shaking his head to clear his thoughts.

Ascending the stairs, the two reached the deck, with Sam looking around bewilderedly at what Dean could possibly want to do up here when the witch they were hunting was below. Kneeling near the tip of the yacht, Dean shoved the crowbar into the wooden flooring, its point striking the glazed topside at a weird angle.

"Find us some rope, will you?" Dean instructed, peering up at Sam before stabbing at the deck again.

Nodding, Sam turned and walked around the side of the cabin just as the satisfying crunch of splintering wood echoed throughout the night. Making his way around the narrow path leading past the cabin and toward the stern of the ship, his eyes searched through the moonlight for anything that could be used in Dean's plan. He had no doubt that his brother was hoping to make a wide enough hole in Emily's million-dollar yacht to lower them into the locked room, but wasn't exactly sure how smart the idea was. Even if they got inside, there was no knowing whether or not the girl would be there. She was a witch, and witches were tricky.

Finding a coil of thick twine hanging off a hook behind the cabin, Sam pulled it off and headed back toward his brother. By the time he returned, the floorboards beside him had been ripped free in a jagged square broad enough to squeeze through. Unfortunately, the look on Dean's face as he gazed down the gap with the flashlight told Sam that neither of them would be heading down there anytime soon.

"What is it?" Sam asked, dropping the rope at his feet and looking down. The room below them was almost completely empty, as if it had rarely been touched. As Dean illuminated every square inch of the space, Sam's shoulders slumped. "Great."

"How the _hell_ could she have gotten the jump on us? She was cornere—SAM!"

Without more of a warning than that, Sam felt himself get thrown aside by a heavy blast. Sliding across the deck and almost over the side of the boat, he skidded to a stop just beside the railing and held on. Across the way, Emily and Dean stared at each other, both of their eyebrows furrowed as they stared intensely at one another.

"So, _The Great Muppet Capers _have finally caught up to me," Emily smirked darkly, relenting her glare and shifting her weight to cross her arms. "About damn time. I was wondering when a couple of Hunters would roll into town."

"Oh, great. I see we're already arrived at the evil banter portion of the conversation," Dean replied, an equally grim smirk on his face. "You know what I don't get about you witches? You start off human, then get all this power and become smart-asses. It's like you think that adds to your allure. Guess what? You can still be killed like a human."

Whipping out the Colt .45, Dean pointed the gun at Emily. However, before he could squeeze off a shot, the weapon was tossed aside, sliding toward Sam's feet. Reaching for it, Sam's fingers closed around the handle before he felt himself get pushed into the railing. "Not so fast, kid. You're not going anywhere."

Struggling against himself, Sam attempted to move, but couldn't. All that seemed to budge on his body was his fingers, neck, and face; everything else was stationary. Groaning, he leaned his head back in a frustrated glare before returning his eyes to the witch, who was smiling broadly at Sam's invisible tethers. "Get comfortable. You're in for a long night." Turning to Dean, her grin deepened. "Be careful or you might end up like your friend."

"Like I'm going to take orders from a witch," Dean scoffed.

"It'd be a good idea," Emily chided, the smile fading. "I hate you Hunters. You're all so… _mouthy_. You talk a big game but never follow it up. My mother met one of you in Dallas back in the day. I must say, his cover was _so_ blown when he tried to shoot her in public. She ran, of course, but had to keep it under wraps until she was sure none of you would follow her here. Gave it a good twenty-one years before chancing it. Unfortunately, she died before we could get anything going again, leaving me with all the instructions."

"Get _what _going again?" Sam asked, shouting a little to be heard.

"Yeah, seriously. And why cursed movies? Talk about a lame idea," Dean added.

Suddenly, Dean was lifted off his feet and thrown toward his brother. As he righted himself, Dean attempted to get to his feet, but was unfortunately deterred in much of the same was as Sam. Groaning under his breath, Dean shot an irritated look at Sam before turning their attention back to Emily as she made her way toward them. Slinking across the deck, she pulled tightly on her white jacket before crouching in front of the brothers, the smile now back in full force. "My, my. Can't keep your mouth shut, can you?

"To answer your question," she continued, her voice no longer the snarky tone she had been using, "the tapes were necessary. I can't get my hands dirty with what I'm doing. It taints the residual effects. If I killed my victims personally, they'd all be gunning for me as soon as they died. And if I'm attempting to use their bones for something bigger and better, then I can't have that. So I get them off my trail. Angry ghosts are more annoying than you can imagine, and I only have so much Holy Water in my cupboard."

"Yeah? And what's your endgame, huh? Stir up a little trouble before your bedtime? Kill some more people?" Dean snapped.

"I'm done killing people, _Hunter_," Emily glowered. "I've got everything I need."

Sighing, Sam chanced a look at Dean before struggling against the force holding him there once again. Giving up after a few moments, he slacked against the railing just as Emily disappeared into the cabin of her yacht. "Where do you think she's going?"

"I don't know," Dean frowned, "but it can't be anywhere good."

* * *

><p>Emily stepped into the cabin of her deceased parents' yacht, fuming. For the past three years that she had been leaning about the craft from her mom, she had come to believe that Hunters were nothing but a myth, like the Boogey Man or Loch Ness Monster, something that was said to exercise vigilance. But it seemed as though her mother's cautionary tales had been right. Hunters did exist and she had a pair of them tied down on her deck.<p>

Sighing deeply, Emily reached for the plastic bag containing the crushed remains of one of her now-dead friend's femurs and poured it into the mortar before grabbing the phial of rabbit's blood that she needed. While the dust heaped in the bowl, Emily grinned sadly. It was a shame that her friends had to die this way, but it was necessary. If she was hoping to call on the corners to raise her parents, she had to lose something equally meaningful to her. When it came down to it, she realized Carla and Alex were just as good to her dead as they would be off at college. It was essentially the same thing.

Pouring the blood on top of the powder, Emily watched as it clumped together. She needed her mom to guide her though this world of witchcraft. She couldn't trust anyone else to lead her down the right path. If she wanted to be as powerful and as successful as the past generations of her family, she needed her parent. The house in Orrington and the Saab they had bequeathed to her was nothing in comparison to the knowledge Mom could give.

She had found the spell in one of her mother's old books and had immediately thought of trying it after the funeral. The ingredients were tough to come across, especially the part about the bones having to be fresh and not the byproduct of her own doing, but she had managed it. It had taken her a year to figure it out, looking through her mom's journal for help, before eventually landing on the cursed tape she had used to try something similar before Emily was born. After converting it for the new electronic era, she had switched the discs in the car, then played it for her friends. She knew the thing would pick up on the strongest nightmare in the room and waited. When Alex was appropriately freaked out, they had headed back to the video store, not even noticing that she hadn't gotten in the car with them. Instead, she wanted until morning to return the "movie" to let it circulate, hoping it would strike someone else down to keep the Hunters off her trail—though she didn't think they were coming. When Riley Storp had died, she had gone in to retrieve it, claiming to be a friend of the girl, then thought better of taking it home and instead slipped the disc in an open container out on the counter. Maybe if someone did come to investigate, they would be too distracted by the chaos to figure out who was behind it.

Also in an attempt to cover her tracks, Emily had removed her second victim's corpse from the sheriff's office, hoping that would lead into another distracting investigation. Ultimately, though, that had proved to be nothing but a waste of time seeing as the police officer hadn't noticed until the two "FBI agents" came to give the body a once-over.

Unfortunately, curiosity had gotten the best of her and she had trailed the two men as they left the precinct, hoping to discover whether or not they were actually Hunters in disguise or her next victims. Hoping for the latter, she had waited for an hour until the two came bursting out of their motel room, but her plan was foiled as soon as the shorter, blonder one had recognized her. Running for it, she knew she had to collect the ingredients to her spell before it was too late and had bailed for her father's yacht. After searching for what she needed below deck, and almost dropping a heavy old anchor on her foot, she realized that the things she was looking for were up above, with what she assumed to be Hunters blocking her path to success.

Now that they were dealt with, however, she had a limited amount of time to perform the spell. It had to be done on a new moon or else she would have to wait another month—and she had no patience for that.

Grabbing a bag of dried belladonna, Emily tossed the petals into the mortar and began to grind it together. When it was finely minced, she pulled a book of matches from the drawer by her hip. Lighting one, she dropped it into the basin and allowed the red smoke to waft toward the ceiling. As she centered herself, she took a deep breath and checked the railing for her hostages. Gasping, she inhaled a lung-full of smoke and began to cough, her eyes watering as she blinked a few times to make sure she wasn't seeing what she was seeing:

Where the two Hunters once sat was now nothing but empty space.

Swallowing hard, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes, hoping that they had simply ran for it instead of staying behind. "_Ego te invoco in nomine Charybdis. Ego te invoco incurrere iram meam. Facite vobis_—"

Suddenly, the sound of a click beside her left temple caused Emily to stop mid-sentence and freeze just as the smoke from her spell snuffed out. Summoning some strength, Emily popped her knuckles in annoyance before sending the boys, who were standing on both sides of her, flying in opposite directions.

_Never did that one before._

Hopping over the shorter one, she jogged her way out onto the deck and toward the parking lot not far away, but it was only a matter of moments before they were on her tail again. The sound of a bullet ricocheting off a nearby lamppost caused her to turn around, and throw her hands toward the Hunters, who fell back onto the ground.

For a moment, she paused, considering her options. She could head back home to finish the spell and hope that they didn't follow behind, or deal with them once and for all. Gathering her courage, she turned and headed back toward them both just as they were getting to their feet. The shorter one with lighter hair looked pissed, as did his friend—or possibly brother, judging by the identical expressions—causing her to smirk and bite back the fear growing at the sight of the gun. It could do some serious damage if she wasn't careful.

"Aw. Didn't get the shot you wanted?"

Throwing her hands forward again, she let the Hunters slide backwards towards the railing they had been stationed at as she walked before them. As soon as the taller one hit the siding, he flinched at the clang of his head on the metal and ducked beneath, just low enough to slide under. Taking the opportunity, Emily flicked him backward until he was over the side. Stunned, the other one's mouth fell slack while he gaped at the edge. "Sammy!"

A heavy splash answered him back just as Emily smiled.

In a flare of anger, the remaining Hunter jumped to his feet and lunged for her, but Emily jumped back just in time to avoid his graze. Smirking, she waved her hand backwards, expecting the guy to fall over the side just like the other, but instead saw him resist. Whatever was causing the Hunter to fume was allowing him to resist her magic.

Seeming to notice as much, he smiled. "That's right, bitch."

Reaching forward again, the Hunter grasped Emily around the neck and dragged her toward him. In the motion, the two collided dangerously close to the railing before the metal beside them gave way. In a split-second, the pair was over the side and tumbling toward the water, a coil of rope falling with them.

Pain like she had never known hit her as soon as she broke the surface. Feeling the Hunter's body float away from her, Emily fought against the agony that riddled over her, accidentally tangling herself in the tethers. As she splashed and tried to look for shore, she noticed that her hostages were no long around and had disappeared almost as suddenly as they had before.

In a wave of nausea, Emily ducked below the water, clutching her stomach as bile threatened to rise. As she stayed beneath, she felt her lungs expand with lack of air before the ropes caused her to sink further below. Looking down, all she could see was darkness as she tried to free herself. Above, the surface seemed to become farther and farther away as she dropped down toward the floor of the ocean. Her lungs screamed and her skin smoked beneath the water before the pain became too much and everything turned to black.


	15. Chapter 14

Available for download in PDF. I promise you that I don't have any viruses. I just **strongly recommend **it seeing as this was written in book format. Visit the Tumblr dedicated to this series, "11785", for details.

Or just read it here (:

FOURTEEN

Munroe Residence  
>Orrington, Maine<br>Thursday, August 3, 2006  
>1:51 AM<p>

**A**s Sam watched Emily sink beneath the surface from the shore a few yards away, he was suddenly consumed with a sense of relief. No more would he have to worry about cursed movies circulating throughout town, and no more would he have to worry about what had happened back at the Brewer Motor Inn—since he and Dean definitely weren't planning on going back there anytime soon.

Tearing away from the parking lot of the motel, Dean pointed them toward Orrington a few dozen miles down River Road. In the passenger's seat, Sam eyed the hexed disc in his hands before moving onto the laptop. Due to the DVD's spell, both of the electronic devices had survived the fire, but that was the only thing that had. Their former room had been charred to a deeper black than Sam remembered his former apartment to appear, though that could be due to the fact that they were investigating the recent blaze at night whereas he and Dean had checked out the devastating destruction the morning after in Palo Alto. The beds had been destroyed to nothing but charcoal springs while everything else inside had become a scene straight out of _Backdraft_. The singed aftermath had at first been hard on their lungs, the smell of smoke still strong even hours later, as well as their eyes. With no lighting, they had stepped as carefully as possible through the valley of the ashes, sometimes accidentally stepping into what had once been a piece of furniture, their balance a little off due to their sopping-wet clothes.

While they investigated, the two remained as silent as possible as both Sam and Dean listened for sounds of the motel's owner making their way toward them. The man had been thick-set with a heavy walk that could be heard miles away, and just as they were checking out a part of the floor, the sound of lumbering footsteps came from down the way, carrying through the broken window and burnt door. Dashing for the Impala parked across the cleared-out lot, the two had barely made it out of there, narrowly missing an encounter with the angry, mustachioed man who had helped them check in.

Now they were on their way toward Emily Munroe's former house, the heater on to dry their damp outfits. After leaving the docks in Bayview, Sam had reminded Dean that even though the witch was dead—in which Dean made an inappropriate _Wizard of Oz _joke—they still weren't finished with their job. They had to get rid of all the evidence of her attacks or else there was an underlying risk that someone else would pick up where she left off.

As they passed Colonial-style house after Colonial-style house, Sam couldn't help but let his mind wonder. Emily had been up to something inside the cabin of the yacht, something that he and his brother had been fortunate to stop half-way, but Sam couldn't resist the curiosity that came with it. Only some of the darkest spells, summoning and what have you, required human bones. Fortunately for them, they had halted her progress. If they hadn't, whatever problem would have aroused might have been too much for them. With Dad in town at the same time they were, neither Sam nor Dean wanted to bring too much attention to them, nonetheless attention brought on by a failed hunt. He and his brother were still supposed to be holed up in Fort Wayne, Indiana while Dad worked alongside the busty brunette they had seen outside the police station. If they were caught, they were screwed.

Pulling into the driveway outside of Emily's house, Dean let the car idle as they stared up at the massive McMansion sitting isolated between a thicket of trees and shrubbery. There were no houses around for as far as he could see, nor were there any other cars on the road, preventing Dean from having to pull any further toward the house. The house itself was white with a finely-gardened front yard, a brick path leading from the blacktop driveway to the front door with multicolored pansies lining the way. On the porch sat a Siamese cat licking its fur with its rough tongue and not bothering to look up at the rumble of the engine. Only at the slamming of the car doors did it run, with a quick glare in their direction before scampering off toward the trees.

"I wonder what it's like living in a house like this," Dean mused as he rounded the grill of the Impala and headed up the walk.

"You do?" Sam frowned in surprise, following him.

"Yeah, sometimes," Dean admitted, shrugging. "You know: big house, big yard, couple of animals running around—the 'Apple Pie' life."

Smirking, Sam reached the door first and turned the handle. Without so much as a nudge, the threshold opened for them, exposing them to the darkness that was the inside of Emily Munroe's house. Exchanging a nod, the two headed in.

"Doesn't seem too bothered about security," Dean commented, heading into the living room to the right.

"Don't think you have to be with witchcraft on your side."

Grinning at his brother's remark, Dean leafed through a few papers sitting on the end tables beside a white leather couch before giving up and searching elsewhere. Doing the same, Sam lifted a few teen magazines off a stand beside the television then turned to head into another room. When the whole bottom floor was searched and deemed useless, the two followed one another up the stairs to the second level and split off into separate bedrooms—Sam taking the first door on the right while Dean took the master.

To his pleasant surprise, the room he had chosen had been the one they were looking for. A desktop computer sat on a console positioned in the corner, its power off but a stack of blank DVDs sat beside a VHS converter near the monitor. Crossing the room, Sam hit the eject button on the tape and waited for it to spit it out. A moment later, his brother was at his side, scoffing at the cassette Sam was now holding. The front of it looked indistinguishable from any other movies Blockbuster sold, with the tacky "Property Of" sticker covering the face and sides.

"Girl was smart enough to transfer the thing over, but not smart enough to stay away from the ocean," Dean smirked. "I don't know whether that's dumb or stupid."

"Or both," Sam grinned.

"I still don't get it, the whole salty, seawater-burning-witch thing," Dean said, picking up some of the ordinary computer devices lying around. "How does that even work? I mean salt and Holy Water can keep away spirits and demons, but I never heard of it working on witches before. Unless we stumbled onto some great discovery."

"It kind of makes sense," Sam frowned, "in a wacky way, anyway. I mean, witches get their power from demons, so maybe the darker they get, the more demonic they become? Wouldn't be the weirdest thing I ever heard."

Shrugging in response, Dean lightly touched the linen curtains framing the window, as if silently wondering what material they were made out of. After a long moment, he let them drop before turning his attention to Sam. "So what do you propose we do with this stuff? We can't just let all this sit here."

"We can dump it in the Atlantic?" Sam suggested, eyeing his brother, who rolled his eyes in response. "What? What are you thinking?"

"That that takes too much time," Dean groaned. "I say we torch the place."

At this, Sam frowned deeply, his eyes narrowing toward his brother as he watched Dean remove his Zippo lighter from his pocket. Reaching forward, Sam grabbed the thing from his brother's hand and clasped his fist tightly over it. "Seriously? Even after what just happened not even _two hours_ ago?"

"What? C'mon, Sammy," Dean sighed. "The only way to get over your fear is to face it, so I say we face it."

"I think it's a little too soon for that, pyromaniac."

Rolling his eyes again, Dean snagged the lighter back from Sam and flicked it open. Waving his brother off just as Dean lit the curtain he had been touching aflame, Sam headed for the stairs and jogged his way down and out the door. A moment later, his brother was behind him, a triumphant smile on his face. "I think I'm doing this next time we can't figure out how to deal with a problem."

Shaking his head, Sam waited a few minutes for the distinguishing black smoke signaling burning wood to rise from the window above before turning toward the Impala. Sinking in, he waited for Dean to do the same and start the engine, his mind now lost in thought somewhere else rather than at Emily Munroe's flaming house.

If he had to be honest with himself, he knew it would be a long time coming before he was over the idea of fire being nothing but destructive and fear-inducing. In the past year, he had been involved with two near-death blazes, though one had been self-inflicted, and had been sure both times that he wasn't going to make it out alive. As soon as the fire had started at the Brewer Motor Inn, anxiety had gripped Sam tightly, telling him that this was it for him and his brother and that whatever happened to them was his fault, causing him to freeze up at crucial times. If it hadn't been for the jolt of surprise at the beams overhead cracking free, he probably wouldn't have jumped forward to temporarily protect him and Dean. Thankfully, Dean had been wise enough to not only anticipate the flames but to memorize the exact placement of the window, breaking it open right when the fire had become too much. If it wasn't for him, Sam would have died. Actually, if it wasn't for his brother, he wouldn't have been in the situation in the first place—but he didn't want to think of it that way. They were working a job, and viewing the film had been necessary. Without it, they wouldn't have known that Emily Munroe had been the one behind the attacks since they were under the impression that she was dead.

As Dean took a right back onto River Road, Sam glanced at his brother and grinned sadly. He knew the fire robustness at the girl's house was classic Dean. Whenever he was worried about something and attempting to pass it off as nothing, Dean always flashed a brave smile and threw caution to the wind. There had only been one time Sam had seen his brother legitimately freak out, and that was over something so mundanely simple that Sam couldn't help but be amused by it at the time. However, Dean's fear of flying had been validated as soon as the plane began to take a nose-dive thanks to the demon in the pilot's seat. Since then, both of them had vowed to one another to keep their feet on the ground.

Pulling into the Bayview Lodge, Dean idled the Impala beside the check-in office while Sam stifled a yawn. Pushing open the door, he got to his feet and glanced at the down-and-out clerk inside the dimly lit office while the guy eyed them from behind his desk. Giving him a small smile before heading in, Sam pulled out his wallet and headed toward the counter, dropping one of the many fake credit cards he and Dean had traded off using over the past few months in front of the guy. Inspecting it, he slowly typed in the name on the card with one hand before passing a sign-in sheet lazily over to Sam. Scribbling down false information, Sam shoved it back as the man silently handed him the key to room seven.

"The beds are good and the TVs are working tonight," the guy said, smiling just as flatly as his tone of voice. "Have a nice stay."

Grinning to himself, Sam slipped the key ring over his finger and twirled it around as he pointed their room out to Dean to park in front of. It was in the middle of the L-shaped layout, which had different colored doormats lying in the threshold. As he walked his way over to it, Dean popped open the trunk and tossed his brother's bag over the roof of the car with the last of his draining post-hunt energy. Slinging his own duffle over his shoulder, Dean slammed the lid down before rejoining Sam at the door. Sticking the key in, Sam felt blindly for the light switch and flipped it on, sniffing back the tiredness that was crowding his senses. The room had a lobster theme that hurt his eyes with the violently red bedspreads and border along the walls. Giving himself a minute to adjust, figuring that the shade of scarlet probably wasn't as bright as he thought it was against his sleepy senses, he paused in the archway while Dean shouldered past him, claiming the bed nearest the window like he always did. It was an unspoken rule between them that Dean got to sleep closest to the door, as though putting himself in the first line of attack—though they had never once been assaulted in their own motel room. Sam had shrugged it off years ago, just as he did now, shutting the door behind him and making his way to the other side of the room. Dropping the keys and his bags on top of the dresser, Sam stripped down to boxers and a t-shirt while Dean had his back turned and climbed under the covers.

Unsurprisingly, the sound and sights of the TV soon covered the room as Dean flicked off the lights and switched channels with an aged remote that had been sitting on the nightstand between them. At the calming sounds of _Nick at Night_, Sam let sleep crowd his brain as he drifted off toward dreamland.

* * *

><p>"<em>Sam… Sam…" Jessica's voice called down to him as he stared up at her, her horrified face searching his for answers. "Sam… help me."<em>

_ "I…" Sam started, just as the door to his right kicked open. Dean was there, transfixed with whatever his younger brother was seeing, before fire exploded behind Jessica's body. The flames were hot and caused the room to smell like charcoal as soon as some of the ceiling burned behind her. "I'm… sorry."_

_ As Dean rushed toward Sam and pulled him off the bed just as the flames grew higher, Sam glanced up at Jessica's consumed body before sighing deeply and exiting the room. There was nothing he could do about the flames; there was no way he could save her. It was better for him and his brother to leave and save themselves rather than risk losing their own lives to whatever demonic cause was behind the death of his girlfriend. He was going to find whatever had done this to her and make them pay, but for now, he was forced to keep hunting alongside Dean, lying in wait until the day came that he could wrap his hands around the demon's neck so tight that bones would snap. _

_ All he had to do was wait and keep hunting. Eventually, he would have his day of reckoning…._


	16. Epilogue

Available for download in PDF. I promise you that I don't have any viruses. I just **strongly recommend **it seeing as this was written in book format. Visit the Tumblr dedicated to this series, "11785", for details.

Or just read it here (:

EPILOGUE

Bayview Super 8  
>Bayview, Maine<br>Thursday, August 3, 2006  
>10:13 AM<p>

**R**esting against the trunk of the Impala, Dean flipped the keys in his hand as he waited for Sam to emerge from the inside of Dad's deserted motel room—which his brother had narrowed down thanks to a search of Dad's known aliases against a crack in the local motel's check-in registry, though Sam wasn't completely sure he had gotten it right—suppressing a yawn and keeping his focus elsewhere.

He hadn't slept very well, bothered by the fact that the fire had been as much his nightmare as it had his brother's—though neither of them realized it at the time. Tossing and turning for most of the night, Dean had stayed up a few hours later than Sam had gone to sleep, watching old re-runs of _Roseanne _and _The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air_, oddly reminded of his teenage years when the shows would marathon during holidays and he and Sam were delegated to TV dinners and themed episodes. In those times, they tried their best to make Christmas and Thanksgiving mean something, but always fell short. Instead, Sam sometimes ran off to a friend from school's house to celebrate, leaving Dean alone—much like his brother had when it came to Stanford. The difference between those two, however, was the fact that at least Dean knew Sam would be back by the end of the night, whereas Dean had been afraid that his brother would graduate from college and the pair would never see each other again. The night of the initial fire, Dean's brief terror had flashed before him—once while dropping Sam off, then again when he sensed something was wrong. The flames seemed to reassure his fear, mocking his trivial suspicion that his brother would disappear from his life in a final way, and whether he knew it or not, had cemented that fear somewhere deep. Unfortunately, it had been unearthed last night, and now Dean was having a problem dealing with it.

He wasn't afraid of much, flying being the only thing he could think of, that didn't involve losing his brother. They were John Winchester's only kids and had had each other's backs for as long as Dean could remember. Their bond as brothers went farther than just blood, as if something had wedged them together in a Big Picture sort of way. He didn't believe in destiny or God, especially not after that event in Nebraska with the Le Granges, but he did believe that he and Sam were part of something bigger than they were. Losing his brother meant, to him, losing the battle—whatever that battle was—and that wasn't at all acceptable.

"_Win_chesters fight to _win_," Dad always said. "No exceptions."

Pushing the thought from his mind just as Sam emerged from the motel room, Dean rolled his shoulders back casually and peered out at the road. A few cars passed now and again, though not enough to consider it traffic, leaving the area with a quiet, tranquil feeling. A sea breeze was in the air, the wind around them hinted with salt, and blowing Sam's hair away from his face to expose his forehead. Combing his fingers through it, he stopped beside his brother and eased himself onto the car.

"Find anything?" Dean asked, letting curiosity get the better of him.

"Nothing interesting," Sam sighed, biting his lip. "Just a mark-up on the wall of a case he's working. Everything else was pretty much normal: clothes everywhere, old food containers in the trash… even the check-in receipt to the room. Just as I thought, used the name Edgar Cayce."

"Edgar Cayce? That one hasn't been used in awhile," Dean said, pulling out his wallet to read the name on one of the credit cards: Hugh Lynn Cayce. Dad had set up the account before Sam had left for Stanford, giving them the pseudonym of a famous psychic and his two sons. They didn't use the cards that often, which was probably why they were still stuffed in their respective wallets, but the names were recognizable enough to reaffirm that Sam had gotten the right room. "But if he was checking out a case at the Bangor PD, why stay in a motel all the way in Bayview? It doesn't make sense."

"The station in Bangor was the sheriff's department for the whole county," Sam reminded him. "Even if they were working a job this far out, they would still have to travel farther inland to get some more details if Harris and his team were called in to investigate."

"They?" Dean frowned.

"Dad and his partner," Sam scowled.

Sighing, Dean remembered seeing Dad and the younger woman outside of the Sheriff's Station, though he had managed to block out the presence of a second person. The idea of their father working with a partner wasn't as far out there as Sam seemed to think, mainly because their dad had been doing things he hadn't in the past—abandoning cases half-way through, running from demons, and cutting off his direct phone lines—leading Dean to think that something was up with him lately. Dad claimed the demon that killed their mom was hot on his trail, though he hadn't seen evidence of it except for that bitch in Chicago, causing Dean to wonder whether or not his father was completely on the level. Up until October, the longest Dad had left him to hunt alone had been two weeks at the max, but now he and Sam had only seen their father once in ten months. Something weird was going on, and if Dad needed a partner to help him sort through it all, then so be it. The closer they came to figuring it out, the closer the Winchesters were to becoming a family again.

Glancing at Sam, Dean recognized the resolute expression on his brother's face and rolled his eyes. He could tell that his brother felt hurt that Dad had abandoned them completely all that time ago, leaving them to pick up where he left off without another word, as well as angry that he still hadn't been given an explanation as to why. The one time Dad had called while they were asleep in a motel room in Rockford, Illinois, Sam hadn't gotten much in the way of details as he had in orders. Sam had refused, stubborn as ever, to follow Dad's command to work a job in Indiana and instead riddled him with questions until Dean had snatched the phone from him. Now his brother stood beside him, the same look on his face as back then, but this time Dean had nothing to prevent Sam from heading back inside the motel room and waiting for Dad to return.

In all the time they had grown up following Dad's instructions, Sam never seemed to respect the unspoken rule telling him that Dad had a reason behind everything but never shared exactly what that reason was. Dean had learned it early and stuck with it. Investigating their father's motel room and leaving Fort Wayne to work jobs was a direct violation of Dad's orders, though the latter didn't bother either of them much. They both had reasons behind ditching the lay-low process of hunting, ones that Dad would probably, though neither of them were sure, understand. The former of which was inexcusable, which was why Dean had refused to go in in the first place. If Dad ever found out, he would feel betrayed and would become more flighty than he already was, and Dean didn't want that of his father. Having at least some form of contact, a voicemail box that never returned calls, was better than nothing at all. Should Dad discover what his son had done behind his back, their one means of communication would most likely be gone.

Sighing, Sam relaxed his shoulders and reached into his pocket to retrieve a slip of paper folded in his hand. Handing it to his brother, he waited for Dean to open it up and read it. It was nothing but a name scribbled down in bubbly purple handwriting. "What's this?"

"I think it's the name of the girl Dad's hunting with," Sam answered. "But the name is bugging me. Like I've heard it before somewhere."

"Kelly Taylor?" Dean frowned, trying to remember if it sounded familiar to him. When nothing rang a bell, he passed the slip back to his brother. "It's a pretty common name, Sam. There are probably a lot of them floating around out there."

"I don't know. I'm going to run a search on her when we get back to the motel room, see if anything comes up," Sam said, more to himself than to Dean, rounding the side of the Impala to get into the passenger's seat.

Frowning again, Dean remained where he was for a minute, wondering what Sam could possibly find satisfying about discovering what Dad was up to and who Dad was with. Sure, Dean was admittedly nosy when it came to certain things, gathering information for a case was one of them, but never when it came to Dad. He respected his father's rules and was planning to abide by them. If Sam wanted to search for answers on his own, that was fine. The only thing Dean was going to do once returning to the motel room was sleep.

Pulling on his earlobe, Dean flipped the keys over in his hand before heading for the Impala's driver's side and slipping behind the wheel.

* * *

><p>As soon as he pulled into the parking lot of the Bayview Lodge, after making a pit stop at the nearest fast-food burger joint for him and Sam, Dean could sense that something was off. The clouds overhead seemed to darken like a warning of unleashed anger, while also threatening thunder and rain.<p>

Climbing out of the car, Dean shot a bemused look at Sam, who returned the expression with a frown, before heading for door number seven near the angle of the L. Retrieving the key from his pocket with his left hand, Dean kept his right on the pistol concealed near the base of his spine and turned the knob slowly, letting it drift open on its own. Behind him, Sam crowded close in a protective stance, peering curiously into the room.

In the darkness sat a figure slumped forward at the end Dean's unmade bed, the profile too similar to that of his brother's to ignore while the bulk of the man reminded Dean of himself. Reaching blindly for the light, though he didn't need to see to know exactly who it was, Dean let the room become bathed in the bright yellow of aged bulbs. Looking up at them with a stern expression on his face was Dad, though a smile was forcing itself through and betraying the hardened look. Gasping Dean glanced at Sam before his eyes fell back on their father.

Getting to his feet, Dad grinned behind his bushy beard. "Hey, boys."

_TO BE CONTINUED…_


End file.
